of the woman, as Everett had known her, lay
in her superb figure and in her eyes, which possessed a warm, lifegiving
quality like the sunlight; eyes which glowed with a sort of perpetual
_salutat_ to the world. Her head, Everett remembered as peculiarly
well-shaped and proudly poised. There had been always a little of the
imperatrix about her, and her pose in the photograph revived all his old
impressions of her unattachedness, of how absolutely and valiantly she
stood alone.

Everett was still standing before the picture, his hands behind him
and his head inclined, when he heard the door open. A very tall woman
advanced toward him, holding out her hand. As she started to speak, she
coughed slightly; then, laughing, said, in a low, rich voice, a trifle
husky: "You see I make the traditional Camille entrance--with the cough.
How good of you to come, Mr. Hilgarde."

Everett was acutely conscious that while addressing him she was not
looking at him at all, and, as he assured her of his pleasure in coming,
he was glad to have an opportunity to collect himself. He had not
reckoned upon the ravages of a long illness. The long, loose folds
of her white gown had been especially designed to conceal the sharp
outlines of her emaciated body, but the stamp of her disease was
there; simple and ugly and obtrusive, a pitiless fact that could not be
disguised or evaded. The splendid shoulders were stooped, there was a
swaying unevenness in her gait, her arms seemed disproportionately
long, and her hands were transparently white and cold to the touch. The
changes in her face were less obvious; the proud carriage of the head,
the warm, clear eyes, even the delicate flush of color in her cheeks,
all defiantly remained, though they were all in a lower key--older,
sadder, softer.

She sat down upon the divan and began nervously to arrange the pillows.
"I know I'm not an inspiring object to look upon, but you must be quite
frank and sensible about that and get used to it at once, for we've no
time to lose. And if I'm a trifle irritable you won't mind?--for I'm
more than usually nervous."

"Don't bother with me this morning, if you are tired," urged Everett. "I
can come quite as well tomorrow."

"Gracious, no!" she protested, with a flash of that quick, keen humor
that he remembered as a part of her. "It's solitude that I'm tired to
death of--solitude and the wrong kind of people. You see, the minister,
not content with reading the pra