's, and at sight of
her face his self-control deserted him, so that he dared not risk
speech. For cholera does its work swiftly and efficaciously, and in
eight hours Honor Desmond's beauty had been ruthlessly wiped out. In
the grey, pinched features and sunken eyes--already dimmed by a
creeping film that blurred the two faces she so loved--it was hard to
trace any likeness to the radiant woman of twenty-four hours ago. Only
the burnished bronze of her hair, encircling her head in a large loose
plait, remained untouched by the finger of death.

When Meredith could command his voice, he spoke quietly and cheerfully
of the day's work, and of the certainty that she would pull through.
Then the hand in his stirred uneasily.

"What is it, dear?" he asked.

"John, I want you to remember,"--the voice was still husky, and she
spoke with difficulty--"whatever happens, . . and tell father,
please . . it wasn't Theo's fault. It was mine."

The hand on her husband's coat-sleeve felt its way up uncertainly, till
it rested in a lingering caress on the dark bowed head. For Desmond,
leaning on his elbow, had covered his eyes with one hand.

Meredith frowned.

"Dearest girl, it was no one's fault. Besides, you are going to get
well. But talking is a strain on you now, I'll look in later."

He stooped and kissed her forehead.

"Good-bye," she whispered.

"No, not good-bye," he contradicted her steadily. "I shall see you
again after mess."

She sighed, and her lids fell. The terrible apathy of cholera was
crushing the soldier spirit out of her by inches.

"God! I don't believe she heard me," he murmured in sudden despair.

At that Desmond uncovered his eyes. "She heard you, right enough," he
said quietly, "Trust me not to let her go."

And Meredith went reluctantly out, leaving man and wife alone with the
Shadowy Third; the only third that could ever come between them.

Honor's hand slipped down from his head to his shoulder, and she opened
her eyes; the soul in them struggling to pierce the mists that deepened
every minute.

"Darling," she breathed. "Come closer . . much closer. I wish . . I
wish you didn't seem all blurred."

He bent nearer, looking steadfastly into her altered face.

"That better, dear?" he asked, controlling his voice with an effort.

"Yes. A little. Whatever John may say, it was my fault," she
persisted, for in spite of pain and prostration, the mists had not
clouded her brain. "