e released, and in such a manner
that it left him no room for remonstrance. The engagement had been
broken, but the young man had not quite abandoned hope.

Now, however, hope had deserted him. Sybil was lost to him utterly, and
hearing the news of her flight he had rushed into Doctor Heath's
presence a temporary madman. He could not have found a wiser or more
sympathetic friend and adviser, and he fully realized this fact. The
doctor's patience, delicacy and discretion had screened him from the
prying eyes and prating tongues of the curious ones, who were anxious to
probe his wounds, and see how "Vandyck would take it," and had made him
his firm friend for always.

Ever since the advent of Doctor Heath, Vandyck had been one of his
warmest admirers, and this admiration had now ripened into a sincere and
lasting friendship.

"You are a good fellow, Heath," said Vandyck, suddenly, throwing down
his paper. "I want to tell you that I appreciate such kindness as you
did me. I don't suppose you would ever go off your head like that. I
shan't again."

"No, I don't think you will," responded the doctor soberly. "As for
going off my head, Lord bless you, man, it's in the temperament. I might
never lose my head in just that way. We're not made alike, you see. Now
I should be struck with a dumb devil, and grow surly and cynical as time
went on, and of all contemptible men a cynic is the worst. You will have
your burst of passion, and carry a tender spot to your grave, but you
can't squeeze all the sunshine out of your soul, any more than out of
your Saxon face."

Vandyck laughed dismally.

"It's hard lines, however," he said. "But I'm bound to face the music.
Only--I wish I could understand it."

"So do all her friends. Ray, let me give you a little advice."

"Well."

"After a little, go call on Miss Wardour and talk with her about this
affair. I think she knows as much as is known, and I am certain she has
not lost her faith in her friend."

"Thank you, Heath; I will."

Just here the office door admitted another visitor in the form of
Francis Lamotte.

He, too, looked pale and worn, but he carried his head erect, if not
with some defiance. "Do, Heath. Morning, Vandyck," he mumbled, flinging
himself upon a settee with scant ceremony. "You will excuse me from
asking 'what's the news?'"

"I should ask what's the matter?" retorted Clifford Heath, eyeing him
closely.

"Fix me up one of your potions, Heath," replied