bscurity around him, heard a voice
calling for help--his own voice--

Then something stirred in the darkness; he listened, stared, striving to
pierce the obscurity with fevered eyes.

Long since the cloths that swathed the clay figures in the studio had
dried out unnoticed by him. He gazed from one to another, holding his
breath. Then his eyes rested upon the altar piece, fell on the snowy
foot, were lifted inch by inch along the marble folds upward slowly to
the slim and child-like hands--

"Oh, God!" he whispered, knowing he had gone mad at last.

For, under the carven fingers, the marble folds of the robe over the
heart were faintly glowing from some inward radiance. And, as he reeled
forward and dropped at the altar foot, lifting his burning eyes, he saw
the child-like head bend toward him from the slender neck--saw that the
eyes were faintly blue--

"Mother of God!" he screamed, "my mind is dying--my mind is dying! ...
We were boys, he and I.... Let God judge him.... Let him be judged...
mercifully.... I am worse than he.... There is no hell. I have
striven to fashion one--I have desired to send him thither--Mother of
God--Cecile--"

Under his fevered eyes he was confusing them, now, and he sank down
close against the pedestal and laid his f ace against her small cold
foot.

"I am sick," he rambled on--"and very tired.... We were boys together,
Cecile.... When I am in my right mind I would not harm him.... He was so
handsome and daring. There was nothing he dared not do.... So young, and
straight, and daring.... I would not harm him. Or you, Cecile.... Only
I am sick, burning out, with only a crippled mind left--from being
badly hurt--It never got well. ... And now it is dying of its
hurt--Cecile!--Mother of God!--before it dies I do forgive him--and ask
forgiveness--for Christ's sake--"

Toward noon the janitor broke in the door.

VII

It was late in December before Drene opened his eyes in his right
senses. He unclosed them languidly, gazed at the footboard of his bed,
then, around at the four shabby walls of his room.

"Cecile?" he said, distinctly.

The girl who had been watching him laid aside her sewing, rose, and
bent over him. Suddenly her pale face flushed and one hand flew to her
throat.

"Dearest?" he said, inquiringly.

Then down on her knees fell the girl, and groped for his wasted hand and
laid her cheek on it, crying silently.

As for Drene, he lay there, his hollow eyes ro