r eyes with their dead gaze nearly frightened him, when, after all his
violence, his entreaty, his abuse of her, she only, in an unchanged
voice, said "No."

He felt then the uselessness of protestation or threat; she must be
treated as if she were mad; humored, cajoled. He was silent for a little
while, walking up and down. "Well, I'll say no more, then. Forgive me
for my harshness," he said. "You give me a great deal to bear, Amabel;
but I'll say nothing now. I have your word, at all events," he looked
sharply at her as the sudden suspicion crossed him, "I have your word
that you'll stay quietly here--until you hear from me what Hugh says?
You promise me that?"

"Yes," his sister answered. He gave a sigh for the sorry relief.

That night Amabel's mind wandered wildly. She heard herself, in the
lonely room where she lay, calling out meaningless things. She tried to
control the horror of fear that rose in her and peopled the room with
phantoms; but the fear ran curdling in her veins and flowed about her,
shaping itself in forms of misery and disaster. "No--no--poor
child.--Oh--don't--don't.--I will come to you. I am your mother.--They
can't take you from me."--this was the most frequent cry.

The poor child hovered, wailing, delivered over to vague, unseen sorrow,
and, though a tiny infant, it seemed to be Paul Quentin, too, in some
dreadful plight, appealing to her in the name of their dead love to save
him. She did not love him; she did not love the child; but her heart
seemed broken with impotent pity.

In the intervals of nightmare she could look, furtively, fixedly, about
the room. The moon was bright outside, and through the curtains a pallid
light showed the menacing forms of the two great wardrobes. The four
posts of her bed seemed like the pillars of some vast, alien temple, and
the canopy, far above her, floated like a threatening cloud. Opposite
her bed, above the chimney-piece, was a deeply glimmering mirror: if she
were to raise herself she would see her own white reflection, rising,
ghastly.--She hid her face on her pillows and sank again into the abyss.

Next morning she could not get up. Her pulses were beating at fever
speed; but, with the daylight, her mind was clearer. She could summon
her quiet look when Mrs. Bray came in to ask her mournfully how she was.
And a little later a telegram came, from Bertram.

Her trembling hands could hardly open it. She read the words. "All is
well." Mrs. Bray s