of his bride the
wife of another against her will. If he might but go and rescue her. If he
might but kill that other man! Then his soul would be confronted with the
thought of murder. Never before had he felt hate, such hate, for a human
being. Then again his heart would soften toward him as he felt how the
other must have loved her, Kate, his little wild rose! and there was a
fellow feeling between them too, for had she not let him see that she did
not half care aright for that other one? Then his mind would stop in a
whirl of mingled feeling and he would pause, and pray for steadiness to
think and know what was right.

Around and around through this maze of arguing he had gone through the
long hours of the morning, always coming sharp against the thought that
there was nothing he could possibly do in the matter but bear it, and that
Kate, after all, the Kate he loved with his whole soul, had done it and
must therefore be to blame. Then he would read her letter over, burning
every word of it upon his brain, until the piteous minor appeal would
torture him once more and he would begin again to try to get hold of some
thread of thought that would unravel this snarl and bring peace.

Like a sound from another world came Marcia's sweet voice, its very
sweetness reminding him of that other lost voice, whose tantalizing music
floated about his imagination like a string of phantom silver bells that
all but sounded and then vanished into silence.

And while all this was going on, this spiritual torture, his living,
suffering, physical self was able to summon its thoughts, to answer gently
that he did not want any dinner; that his head was no better; that he
thanked her for her thought of him; and that he would take the tea she
offered if it was not too much trouble.

Gladly, with hurried breath and fingers that almost trembled, Marcia
hastened to the kitchen once more and prepared a dainty tray, not even
glancing at the dinner table all so fine and ready for its guest, and back
again she went to his door, an eager light in her eyes, as if she had
obtained audience to a king.

He opened the door this time and took the tray from her with a smile. It
was a smile of ashen hue, and fell like a pall upon Marcia's soul. It was
as if she had been permitted for a moment to gaze upon a martyred soul
upon the rack. Marcia fled from it and went to her own room, where she
flung herself on her knees beside her bed and buried her face i