it become.

"Anything!" Addington said. "Anything! Oh, my God, don't leave us!"

Julia said something. Again this word was in their own language
and again it was a word of command. But emotion had come into her
voice--joy; it thrilled through the air like a magic fluid. The women
sank slowly to earth. In another instant the two forces were in each
other's arms.

"Billy," Julia said, as hand in hand they struck into one of the paths
that led to the jungle, "will you marry me?"

Billy did not answer. He only looked at her.

"When?" he said finally. "To-morrow?"

"To-day," Julia said.

Sunset on Angel Island.

The Honeymoon House thrilled with excitement. At intervals figures
crowded to the narrow door; at intervals faces crowded in the narrow
window. Sometimes it was Lulu, swollen and purple and broken with
weeping. Sometimes it was Chiquita, pale and blurred and sagging with
tears. Often it was Peachy, whose look, white and sodden, steadily
searched the distance. Below on the sand, Clara, shriveled, pinched,
bent over, her hands writhing in and out of each other's clasp, paced
back and forth, her eye moving always on the path. Suddenly she stopped
and listened. There came first a faint disturbance of the air, then
confusion, then the pounding of feet. Angela, white-faced, frightened,
appeared, flying above the trail. "I found him," she called. Behind came
Billy, running. He flashed past Clara.

"How is she?" he panted.

"Alive," Clara said briefly.

He flew up the steps. Clara followed. Angela dropped to the sand and Jay
there, her little head in the crook of her elbow, sobbing.

Inside a murmur of relief greeted Billy. "He's come, Julia," Peachy
whispered softly.

The women withdrew from the inner room as Billy passed over the
threshold.

Julia lay on the couch stately and still. One long white hand rested
on her breast. The other stretched at her side; its fingers touched
a little bundle there. Her wings--the glorious pinions of her
girlhood--towered above the pillow, silver-shining, quiescent. Her
honey-colored hair piled in a huge crown above her brow. Her eyes were
closed. Her face was like marble; but for an occasional faint movement
of the hand at her side, she might have been the sculpture on a tomb.

Her lids flickered as Billy approached, opened on eyes as dull as
stones. But as they looked up into his, they filled with light.

"My husband--" she said. Her eyes closed.

But presently