bound down to the day of my death, or of his. We both
come of a long-lived race, and this must go on for years. I have tried
to prevent it, this gradual change in him; but it was impossible. Then I
tried not to see it; but I had to see it. It insisted on itself and on
being seen. I have been watching it, dreading the time when I must admit
it in so many words. I have tried to be loyal to him, God knows!" She
spoke rapidly. Then she checked herself, and the dreary note came again.
"But what is done, is done. I loved one man; I am married to another.
Nothing now can bring back to me the man I used to know, the man I used
to imagine him. Then what will the future amount to? We shall go on
together to the end, two prisoners bound by a chain which only holds us
the tighter and galls us the more, the looser it grows between us. One
doesn't mind the dying; it's the limitless, unchanging years ahead, the
black, blank years that frighten me. How can I escape them?"

In presence of a woman's passionate pain, every man must stand back,
baffled and powerless to help. Thayer had supposed he understood Beatrix
Lorimer as no other man had ever understood her. To his eyes, her
character seemed crystal clear; yet now, in her supreme crisis, the
crystal grew cloudy before his eyes. For long hours, she had gone into
the deep places of her life, had stirred up from its very source the
spring of her being, and the superficial clearness had grown turgid with
the dregs that had lain undisturbed and unsuspected there. Hatred and
black despair were boiling in the heart which Thayer had thought so calm
and cool, so peaceful in its dainty whiteness. Before it, he stood
silent. Was this the true Beatrix Lorimer? The woman he had fancied her
was a spotless white lily. The heart of this one was banded with bars
of flame and gold. The other grew colorless and cold by comparison, and
his hands twitched to pluck this fiery, vivid thing before him and carry
it away out of reach of Lorimer's sodden, defiling touch. What had
Sidney Lorimer, drunkard, profligate that he was, to do with this
high-bred, high-spirited, heart-broken woman? Why not rather he, Cotton
Mather Thayer--He thrust his hands into his pockets and lowered his eyes
to hide the light burning in them.

It seemed to him hours since he had entered the house. In reality, the
time was short. As he had crossed the threshold, Beatrix had raised her
head and looked at him dully. Then her reaction