got up and drew out the pin in Laura's hat. She took
off the hat, loosened the scarf around Laura's neck, and then deftly,
silently, while her sister lay inert and sobbing beneath her hands,
removed the stiff, tight riding-habit. She brought a towel dipped in
cold water from the adjoining room and bathed Laura's face and hands.

But her sister would not be comforted, would not respond to her
entreaties or caresses. The better part of an hour went by; Page,
knowing her sister's nature, in the end held her peace, waiting for the
paroxysm to wear itself out.

After a while Laura's weeping resolved itself into long, shuddering
breaths, and at length she managed to say, in a faint, choked voice:

"Will you bring me the cologne from my dressing-table, honey? My head
aches so."

And, as Page ran towards the door, she added: "And my hand mirror, too.
Are my eyes all swollen?"

And that was the last word upon the subject between the two sisters.

But the evening of the same day, between eight and nine o'clock, while
Laura was searching the shelves of the library for a book with which to
while away the long evening that she knew impended, Corthell's card was
brought to her.

"I am not at home," she told the servant. "Or--wait," she added. Then,
after a moment's thought, she said: "Very well. Show him in here."

Laura received the artist, standing very erect and pale upon the great
white rug before the empty fireplace. Her hands were behind her back
when he came in, and as he crossed the room she did not move.

"I was not going to see you at first," she said. "I told the servant I
was not at home. But I changed my mind--I wanted to say something to
you."

He stood at the other end of the fireplace, an elbow upon an angle of
the massive mantel, and as she spoke the last words he looked at her
quickly. As usual, they were quite alone. The heavy, muffling curtain
of the doorway shut them in effectually.

"I have something to say to you," continued Laura. Then, quietly
enough, she said:

"You must not come to see me any more."

He turned abruptly away from her, and for a moment did not speak. Then
at last, his voice low, he faced her again and asked:

"Have I offended?"

She shook her head.

"No," he said, quietly. "No, I knew it was not that." There was a long
silence. The artist looked at the floor his hand slowly stroking the
back of one of the big leather chairs.

"I knew it must come," he answered, at length