at once bark up the wrong tree, and
conclude that he was fretting for her--breaking his heart for her,
whereas he was doing nothing of the kind.

It was Christine, and not Cynthia, who was on his mind day and night,
night and day; Christine for whose sake he reproached himself so
bitterly and could get no rest. She was so young--such a child.

Every day he found himself remembering some new little incident about
her; every day some little jewel from the past slipped out of the mists
of forgetfulness and looked at him with sad eyes as if to ask:

"Have you forgotten me? Don't you remember----"

He could not help thinking of Christine's mother too; he had been fond
of her--she had mothered him so much in the old days; he wondered if
she knew how he had repaid all her kindness; what sort of a hash he had
made of life for poor little Christine.

"You'd better cut off to bed," Sangster said again bluntly.

He lit a cigarette and puffed a cloud of smoke into the air; he was
really disturbed about Jimmy. The repeated advice seemed to annoy
Jimmy; he frowned and rose to his feet; he caught his breath with a
sort of gasp of pain. Sangster turned quickly.

"What's up, old chap?"

"Only my rotten head---it aches like the very devil."

Jimmy stood for a moment with his hand pressed hard over his eyes, then
he took a step forward, and stopped again.

"I can't--I--confound it all----"

Sangster caught his arm.

"Don't be an ass; go to bed." He raised his voice; he called to
Costin; between them they put Jimmy to bed and tucked him up. He kept
protesting that there was nothing the matter with him, but he seemed
grateful for the darkness of the room, and the big pillows beneath his
aching head.

Sangster went back to the sitting-room with Costin.

"I don't think we need send for a doctor," he said. "It's only a
chill, I think. See how he is in the morning. What's he been up to,
Costin?"

Costin pursed his lips and raised his brows.

"He's been out most nights, sir," he answered stoically. "Only comes
home with the milk, as you might say. Hasn't slept at all, and doesn't
eat. It's my opinion, sir, that he's grieving like----" He looked
towards the mantelshelf and the place which they could both remember
had once held Cynthia Farrow's portrait.

Sangster shook his head.

"You mean----" he asked reluctantly.

"Yes, sir." Costin tiptoed across the room and closed the door which
led to Jimmy's bedroom