formula, 'while there's life there's hope.' With the
best of care, and nursing, and medical aid, there may be one chance in a
hundred for him. With hospital care and attendance, there's not a
shadow."

Then for the space of five seconds a pause fell. The city street, the
gaping, curious crowd around her faded away, and there arose before
Norine a far different and never-to-be-forgotten picture--a desolate
autumn evening; a gray, complaining sea, creeping up on its gray sands,
a low, fast-drifting sky lying over it, and on the shore a girl
standing, reading a few brief lines in Laurence Thorndyke's
writing--lines that branded her as a thing of sin and shame for
life--that broke her heart as she read. And now--her enemy lay here at
her mercy. Why should she lift a finger to save him? Why not let him go
to the hospital and take his chance? All that man can do to ruin a
woman, body and soul, he had done--why should she lift a finger to save
him now?

She thought all this in a moment of time. The tempter stood at her side
and rekindled all the pain, and hatred and horror of him. Then her eyes
fell upon the crushed, bleeding, senseless form at her feet, and she
turned from the dark thoughts within her with horror of herself.

"Well, madam?" the voice of the medical man said, a little impatiently,
"how is it to be? You evidently know this unfortunate young man--shall
he be removed to the hospital, or--"

"To my house!" She rose suddenly, her self possession returning. "And I
must beg of you to accompany him there. No efforts must be spared to
restore him. Carry him to the carriage at once."

Men came forward, and the insensible figure was gently lifted, carried
to the carriage, and laid upon the cushions.

Norine entered, and took his head in her lap. The doctor followed.

"Home!" she said to the coachman, and they drove slowly back, through
the busy streets, to the quiet, red-brick mansion that for years had
been Laurence Thorndyke's home.

"How should she tell Helen?" All the way that thought filled Norine.

Through her the wife had left the husband. Was Death here to separate
them still more effectually? Would he ever have come to this but for
her? In some way did not this horror lie at her door? In all the years
that were to come could she ever atone for the wickedness she had done.

As she sat here she felt as though she were a murderess. And once she
had loved this man--passionately loved him. "Fiercest love