pointing to the door at the further end of the passage he
said:

"That is your wife's sick chamber. Please enter quietly and remember
the danger of exciting Mrs. Jones unduly. Be gentle, and--considerate."

Jason Jones nodded. A moment he regarded the door with curious
intentness, savoring of reluctance. Then he slowly advanced, opened it
and went in, closing the door softly behind him.

Dr. Anstruther seated himself in the reception room. The artist puzzled
him greatly, although he prided himself--through long professional
experience--on being able to read human nature with some accuracy. This
summons to his dying-wife ought to seem the most natural thing in the
world to Jason Jones, yet the man appeared dazed and even bewildered by
the event, and while he had once lived in luxurious surroundings his
later experiences must have been so wholly different that the splendor
of his wife's mode of living quite embarrassed him. Yes, the contrast
was sharp, it must be admitted; the man had formerly shared Tony
Seaver's immense wealth; he had enjoyed the handsomest studio in New
York; and then--back to poverty, to drudgery, to a struggle for mere
food and clothing! Years of hardship were likely to have had a decided
effect upon the character of a man who was doubtless weak in the
beginning; it would make him hard, and bitter, and----

A shrill scream startled him. It came from the sick chamber and was
echoed by another cry--hoarse and terrified--in a man's voice.

Dr. Anstruther sprang to his feet and hurried into the patient's
bedchamber.

"The woman's dead, Doctor," cried Jason Jones, standing in the middle
of the room. "She's dead!"

The physician hastened to the bedside, where Janet Orme, the nurse, was
bending over the still form. Pushing her away, Dr. Anstruther made a
hurried examination.

It was true; the woman was dead. At the very moment of reunion with the
husband from whom she had so long been parted, she had passed on to
another life, leaving reconciliation in abeyance.

Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones lay beneath her lace covered with features
contorted, mouth half open and eyes staring wildly. A paroxysm of pain
had carried her off, the good doctor well knew; the pain, and the
excitement of the moment. Very tenderly he bent down and closed the
eyes and pressed the lips together. He smoothed the lines from the
cheeks, so that the face became more natural in appearance. Then, with
a sigh--for he had become