within her memory that death had approached her sheltered
life, and she was shocked and frightened, as a child is frightened by
the terrors of the dark.

Very late that night she crept into bed, dismissing her _ayah_, and lay
there shivering and forlorn, thinking, thinking, of the cruel faces and
flashing knives that Phil had awaked to see. She dozed at last in her
misery, only to wake again with a shriek of nightmare terror, and start
up sobbing hysterically.

"Why, Audrey!" a quiet voice said, and she woke fully, to find her
husband standing by her bed.

She turned to him impulsively, hiding her face against him, clinging to
him with straining arms. She could not utter a word, for an anguish of
weeping overtook her. And he was silent also, bending over her, his hand
upon her head.

Gradually the paroxysm passed and she grew quieter; but she still clung
closely to him, and at length with difficulty she began to speak.

"Oh, Eustace, it's all so horrible! I can't help seeing it. I'm sure
he's dead, or, if he isn't, it's almost worse. And I was so--unkind to
him the last time we were together. I thought he was cross, but I know
now he was only miserable; and I never dreamt I was never going to see
him again, or I wouldn't have been so--so horrid!"

Haltingly, pathetically, the poor little confession was gasped out
through quivering sobs and the face of the man who listened was no
longer a stony mask; it was alight and tender with a compassion too
great for utterance.

He bent a little lower over her, pressing her head closer to his heart;
and she heard its beating, slow and strong and regular, through all the
turmoil of her distress.

"Poor child!" he said. "Poor child!"

It was all the comfort he had to offer, but it was more to her than any
other words he had ever spoken. It voiced a sympathy which till that
moment had been wholly lacking--a sympathy that she desired more than
anything else on earth.

"Don't go away, Eustace!" she begged presently. "It--it's so dreadful
all alone."

"Try to sleep, dear," he said gently.

"Yes, but I dream, I dream," she whispered piteously.

He laid her very tenderly back on the pillow, and sat down beside her.

"You won't dream while I am here," he said.

She clasped his hand closely in both her own and begged him tremulously
to kiss her. By the dim light of her night-lamp she could scarcely see
his face; but as her lips met his a great peace stole over her. She fel