knows what would happen if you did."

"You are insane!" I cried out, with my hand gripping her round wrist.
"It's that which has hung over us."

She shook her head.

"Worse," said she.

Then, as if to assure me that she had not lost her reason, she recalled
the months which had just gone and described, as I could not, the change
in our home, our life, ourselves.

"It is for you!" she broke out finally, as if she were no longer able to
be calm. "For you and for our future I am begging you to do what I ask."

"Tell me this," said I, stirred by seeing her tremble so violently. "Has
something come to you out of the past?"

"Yes," she said, reaching behind her for the wall. "Ask nothing more. It
has come out of the old, old past. For the love of all that is good,
promise to do as I say."

"And then?" said I.

"Come back to me. I shall be here--then."

I bowed my head.

"On your word of honor," she commanded.

"On my word of honor," said I, and turned away.

I had scarcely done so, however, before I felt her arms about me, the
impact and the clinging of her body. Close to me, plucking at my
fingers, my sleeves, my wrist, her body shaking with her sobs, she
covered me with caresses like those given at some parting for eternity.

"You--are not--in danger of death!" I exclaimed, holding her away from
me at arm's length.

"No, I cannot believe that," she said quietly. "Such as I am, I shall be
when you come back."

With these words she pushed me gently from the room; I found myself
looking into the broad white panel of a closed door. I stood there a
moment, dazed, then going to my chamber, I, with my own hands, packed a
large kit bag, preparing to do as she had asked. It was only after I had
reflected on my promise that I went again to speak with her. I knocked.
There was no answer. I tried the latch. The door was locked.

Without eating my breakfast and with a strange conflict between my trust
in my wife and the memory of my experiences since I had known her, I
left the house and have not passed its threshold, though it is two weeks
to-morrow morning since I left it.

Do you wonder, sir, that I have suffered all the torments which anxiety
can devise or imagination, with its swift picture-film, may unroll
before one's eyes? I have stifled as best I could these uncertain
terrors. By day, when I have plunged into my work at the office, at
times I have been able to shut my mind to the everlasting rehearsal
ar