ullen heart blue flames leaped and danced weirdly. The
woman knelt beside the bed, and the man stood near her.

In the room there was silence. The child's eyes unclosed, a gleam of
recognition dawned in them, he whispered his mother's name and put his
hand up to her neck. Then his look turned to his father, his lips
moved. Thorne knelt beside the pillow and bent his head to listen; the
little voice fluttered and broke, the hand fell away from Ethel's neck,
the lids drooped over the beautiful eyes. Thorne raised the tiny form
in his arms, the golden head rested on his breast, Ethel leaned over
and clasped the child's hands in hers. A change passed over the little
face--the last change--the breath came in feeble, fluttering sighs, the
pulse grew weaker, weaker still, the heart ceased beating, the end had
come.

Gently, peacefully, with his head on his father's breast, his hands in
his mother's clasp, the innocent spirit had slipped from its mortal
sheath, and the waiting angel had tenderly received it.

Thorne laid the child gently down upon the pillows, pressing his hand
over the exquisite eyes, his lips to the ones that would never pay back
kisses any more; then he rose and stood erect. Ethel had risen also,
and confronted him, terror, grief, and bewilderment, fighting for
mastery in her face--in her heart. Half involuntarily, she stretched
out her hands, and made a movement as though she would go to him; half
involuntarily he extended his arms to receive her; then, with a
shuddering sob, her arms fell heavily to her sides, and he folded his
across his breast.

Down below, pacing the floor, in hot impatience to be gone, was the
other man, waiting with smoldering jealousy and fierce longing for the
end. And, outside, the snow fell heavily, with, ever and anon, a wild
lash of bitter sleet; the earth cowered under her white pall, hiding
from the storm, and the wind sobbed and moaned as it swept through the
leafless trees like a creature wailing.

CHAPTER XXII.

The south of France. There is music in the very words--sunshine,
poetry, and a sense of calm; a suggestion of warmth and of infinite
delight. No wonder pain, care and invalidism, flock there, from less
favored climes, for comfort and healing; returning, year after year, to
rest beneath the shadow of olive and ilex, and to dream the luscious
days away beside the blue waters of the Mediterranean, drinking in
strength and peace with every far-re