face twitched. Yes! he remembered. All his life he would
remember the small, dank face of his first-born--that pitiful image, so
cruelly unlike the cherub of Jean's dreams. He had another memory
also--the memory of a grey, rainy morning when he stood by his son's
grave in the dreary city cemetery, while his wife lay unconscious at
home, grudging each moment in his longing to be back beside her--
dreading to return to hear a worse report. Jean had been spared more
than she knew--more than she would ever guess, for no word of his would
enlighten her. It was not Robert Gloucester's custom to speak of his
own woes.

He sat by the bed holding Jean's slack hand, gazing at her with wistful,
puzzled eyes. He loved her as surely no man had loved a woman before,
but he could not comfort her. That was the tragic, the inexplicable
fact. In the first great sorrow of life she thrust him aside. It was
terribly hard for her, poor darling; a crushing blow, _but_ there was
still so much for which to be thankful. Her own life was spared; they
were given back to each other's love. Could she not realise, and be
consoled?

Poor Robert! As well expect the dead child to rise from its grave as
Jean to develop patience in the crash of her first great grief. If she
had fallen from one deep faint to another, if she had hysterically cried
and sobbed, he could have understood and sympathised; but this bitter
cry of rebellion was beyond his comprehension. At the moment when he
most longed to draw near, the great barrier of temperament shut him out
from his wife's heart.

The darkness deepened in the room; the face of Jean on the pillow became
dim and blurred, her hand lay slack and unresponsive in his grasp.
Robert sat silent, his whole being expended in a prayer for strength and
wisdom--for the power to say the right word to meet his wife's needs.

"Beloved," he whispered softly. "Be patient! Be content with me a
little longer. There will be others..."

But what woman fresh from her fiery trial can take comfort in that
thought? With a cry of pain Jean wrenched away her hand.

"Oh, you don't, you _don't_ understand! I want Vanna--I want a woman.
Send Vanna to me."

So once again he had said the wrong thing.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vanna crept in through the doorway, and knelt down by Jean's side. The
gas was lighted now, turned up just high enough to make visible the
va