wn her
cheeks.

The sight of this writhing soul raised many new speculations in
Donaldson's mind especially in connection with its possible outcome.
In the matter of religion he was negative, neither believing any
professed creed nor denying any. He had received no early impetus, and
had up to now been too preoccupied with his earthly interests, with no
great grief or happiness to arouse him, to formulate any theory in his
own mind. Even at the moment he had swallowed the poison the motive
prompting him to it had been so intensely material that it had started
but the most momentary questions. It was the thought of Mrs.
Wentworth, the sight of the baby, the indefinable boundaries of his own
love--it was love that pressed the question in upon him. Now the other
extreme embodied in the sight of the man before him, capped by the
acute query of what the sin of murder might mean, sharpened it to a
real concern. If such love as the mother and the girl connoted forbade
the conception that love expired with life, the torture of this other
stunted soul seemed prophetic of what might be awaiting his own future,
dwarfed by the shifty expedient he had adopted to check its
development. If punishment counted for anything, he was, to be sure,
receiving his full portion right here on earth. The realization of
what he was leaving was an inquisition of the most exquisite order.
But would this be the end? His consciousness, as he sat there, refused
to allow the hope,--refused even to allow the hope to be desired.

So, face to face, each of these two struggled with the problem of his
next step. To each of them life had a new and terrible significance.
From a calm sea it had changed to wind-rent chaos. It was revealing
its potentialities,--lamb-like when asleep, lion-like when roused.
Tangle-haired Tragedy had stalked forth into the midst of men going
about their business.

The man on the bed broke out again,

"Why did n't I die before that? Why did n't I die before?"

Then he turned upon Donaldson with a new horror in his eyes.

"I did n't kill her?" he gasped.

The answer to his cry came--though he could not interpret it--in the
ringing of the telephone. Donaldson crossed to it, while Arsdale
cowered back in bed as though fearing this were news of some fresh
disaster. To him the broken conversation meant nothing; to Donaldson
it brought a relief that saved him almost from madness.

"Is that you, Mr. Donaldson?" she a