aching whisper, at
regular intervals, for at least half an hour. He did not move from his
knees, and so intense was his absorption that the presence of those who
came near was as nothing.

What he hoped or intended to do he did not explain to himself. He was of
the order of man who coldly waves aside all wanderings on the subjects
of occult claims. He believed in proven facts, in professional aid, in
the abolition of absurdities. But his whole narrow being concentrated
itself on one thing,--he wanted this woman back. He wanted to speak to
her.

What power he unknowingly drew from the depths of him, what exquisite
answering thing he reached at, could not be said. Perhaps it was only
some remote and subtle turn of the tide of life and death which chanced
to come to his aid.

"Emily!" he said again, after many times.

Dr. Warren at this moment met the lifted eyes of the doctor who was
counting her pulse, and in response to his look went to him.

"It seems slightly stronger," Dr. Forsythe whispered.

The slow, faint breathing changed a shade; there was heard a breath
slightly, very slightly deeper, less flickering, then another.

Lady Walderhurst slightly stirred.

"Remain where you are," whispered Dr. Warren to her husband, "and
continue to speak to her. Do not alter your tone. Go on."

* * * * *

Emily Walderhurst, drifting out on a still, borderless, white sea,
sinking gently as she floated, sinking in peaceful painlessness deeper
and deeper in her drifting until the soft, cool water lapped her lips
and, as she knew without fear, would soon cover them and her quiet face,
hiding them for ever,--heard from far, very far away, across the
whiteness floating about her, a faint sound which at first only fell
upon the stillness without meaning. Everything but the silence had been
left behind aeons ago. Nothing remained but the soundless white sea and
the slow drifting and sinking as one swayed. It was more than sleep,
this still peace, because there was no thought of waking to any shore.

But the far-off sound repeated itself again, again, again and again,
monotonously. Something was calling to Something. She was so given up to
the soft drifting that she had no thoughts to give, and gave none. In
drifting so, one did not think--thought was left in the far-off place
the white sea carried one from. She sank quietly a little deeper and the
water touched her lip. But Something was calling