and went its
way between the fire and the young girl who watched it pass with
fearless and clairvoyant gaze.

"Athalie?"

"Yes," she answered as in a dream.

"Athalie! What is the matter?"

She turned, looked at him almost blindly as her remoter vision
cleared.

"Clive," she said under her breath, "go home."

"What?"

"Go home. You are wanted."

"_What!!!_"

She rose and he stood up, his fascinated eyes never leaving hers.

"What were you staring at a moment ago?" he demanded. "What did
you--think--you saw?"

Her eyes looked straight into his. She went to him and put both arms
around his neck.

"Dearest," she said "--dearest." And kissed him on the mouth. But he
dared not lay one finger on her.

The next moment she had his coat, was holding it for him. He took his
hat and stick from her, turned and walked to the door, wheeled in his
tracks, shivering.

And saw her crouched on the sofa, her head buried in her arms. And
dared not speak.

* * * * *

There was an automobile standing in the street before his own house as
he turned out of Fifth Avenue; lighted windows everywhere in the
house, and the iron grille ajar.

He could scarcely fit the latch-key his hands were so unsteady.

There were people in the hall, partly clad. He heard his own name in
frightened exclamation.

"What is it?" he managed to ask.

A servant stammered: "Mr. Clive--it's all over, sir. Mrs. Bailey is
asking for you, sir."

"Is my father--" but he could not go on.

"Yes, sir. His man heard him call--once--like he was dreamin' bad. But
when he got to him Mr. Bailey was gone.... The doctor has just
arrived, sir."

For one instant hope gleamed athwart the stunning crash of his senses:
he steadied himself on the newel post. Then, in his ear a faint voice
echoed: "Dearest--dearest!" And, knowing that hope also lay dead, he
lifted his young head, straightened up, and set his foot heavily on
the first step upward into a new and terrible world of grief.

CHAPTER XII

Athalie ventured to send some Madonna lilies with no card attached;
but even the thought of her white flowers crossing the threshold of
Clive's world--although it was because of her devotion to him alone
that she dared salute his dead--left her sensitively concerned,
wondering whether it had been a proper thing for her to do.

However, the day following she wrote him.

"CLIVE DEAR,

"I do not mean to intrude o