olutely. Then his official summons came, and
reluctantly he returned to his desk.

By the time Beatrix was in town again, she was ready to admit to herself
that hopelessness might mean something worse than death. By the end of
the winter, the _might_ had ceased to be potential and had become
actual. Since those August days at Monomoy, the convulsions had recurred
at irregular intervals. The physical constitution of the Danes had
refused to give way to them; the nervous instability of the Lorimers had
yielded to them utterly. Unless some miracle intervened, the child must
face a future of vigorous body and enfeebled brain; and Beatrix, as she
watched him, told herself the melancholy truth that the day of miracles
was irrevocably dead. It seemed to her that the years were stretching
out before her in an empty, unending trail, that she must follow it
alone, hand in hand with her child, bound forever to watch for the
signs of an intellect which never, never should appear. And she was the
one to blame. It was no less her own fault, because she had assumed the
responsibility in arrogant ignoring of its true import.

One afternoon in late May found her sitting by the open window with the
child in her arms, when Thayer was announced. She greeted him with
something of her old cordiality. Then she rang for the nurse to take
away the baby.

"When did you get home again?" she asked, when they were seated alone
together.

"This morning. I landed at ten, and I came directly to you."

She ignored the eagerness of his tone.

"You have been wonderfully successful, I am told."

"Well enough. It was nothing wonderful, though."

"Bobby has kept me informed of your glories," she insisted, with a
slight smile; "and Mr. Arlt has really enjoyed them as well as if they
had been his own."

"That is characteristic of Arlt. His letters were noncommittal; but
Bobby says he has had his own fair share of honors. I am glad, for he
deserves them."

"Indeed he does," she assented heartily. "We all are so glad for him;
and it is a delight to watch the odd, boyish modesty with which he
accepts his own fame. He is the most unspoiled genius I have ever
known."

There was a short silence. Thayer grew restless under it. He had not
hurried his return, left his luncheon untasted and escaped from a dozen
reporters, in order to sit and discuss Arlt with that black-gowned woman
the tip of whose finger outweighed for him the clumsy honors of the
eart