en curiosity piqued or
impatience beset, she invoked the ugly shade of Lady Byron, and
resolved anew that while alert to play her part in Warner's life, she
would be guided wholly by events.

The rains began again, those terrible rains of a tropic summer, when
the heavens are in flood and open their gates, beating palm tops to
earth, tearing the long leaves of the banana tree to ribbons, turning
the roads into roaring torrents, and day into night. Boats were used
in the streets of Charlestown. The heat was stifling. The Caribbean
Sea roared as if boiling tides were forcing their way from Mount
Misery on St. Kitts to the crater of Nevis. Warner pretended to read
during the day, but it was not long before Anne discovered that he
stole from his room every night, and she knew his goal. He appeared
at the nine o'clock breakfast, however, and neither made allusion to
the vigils written in his face. At first it was merely haggard, but
before long misery grew and deepened, misery and utter hopelessness;
until Anne could not bear to look at him.

The storms continued. Ten days passed. Anne was not sure that he even
slept in the daytime. He ceased to speak at all, although he managed
to convey to Anne his gratitude that she was good enough to let him
alone. Once she suggested a trip to England as soon as they could get
a packet for Barbadoes, but he merely shook his head, and Anne knew
that he would not stir from Nevis.

There came a night when Anne too gave up all attempt to sleep. Even
after her illness she had found no difficulty in resuming the long
unbroken rest of youth, but youth had taken itself off in a fright.

[Illustration: "Then she left the room again"]

On this night she wandered about and faced the truth. It was a night
to assist the least imaginative to face an unhappy crisis. A small
hurricane raged, seeming to burst in wild roars from Nevis itself.
The streams on the mountain were cataracts. The sea threatened the
island. At another time, Anne, like other West Indians, would have
paid incessant visits to the barometer, but to-night she cared nothing
for the threat of the elements. A storm raged within her, and she had
a perfect comprehension of the madness and despair in the library.

She was out of her fool's paradise at last. She knew that he would
never write his drama without the aid that marvellous but rotten spot
in his brain demanded. And its delivery was in her hands. He was the
soul of honour, u