ood with him beside the sick-bed, listened,
with him, to the heart-beats when he used the stethoscope, waited while
he counted the pulse and measured the respiration.

Always disapprovingly, she stood in the background of his
consciousness. When he wrote a prescription, his pencil seemed to
catch on the white chiffon which veiled the paper he was using. At
night, she stood beside his bed, waiting. In his sleep, most often
secured in these days by drugs, she steadfastly and unfailingly came.
She spoke no word; she simply followed him, veiled--and the phantom
presence was driving him mad. He admitted it now.

And "Father always does the square thing." Very well, what was the
square thing? If Father always does it, he will do it now. What is it?

Anthony Dexter did not know that he asked the question aloud. From the
silence vibrated the answer in Thorpe's low, resonant tones:

_The honour of the spoken word still holds him . . . he was never
released . . . he slunk away like a cur . . . in the sight of God he
is bound to her by his own word still_.

Bound to her! In every fibre of his being he felt the bitter truth.
He was bound to her--had been bound for twenty-five years--was bound
now. And "Father always does the square thing."

Once in a man's life, perhaps, he sees himself as he is. In a blinding
flash of insight, he saw what he must do. Confession must be made, but
not to any pallid priest in a confessional, not to Thorpe, nor to
Ralph, but to Evelina, herself.

_He should go to her and either fulfil his promise, or ask for release.
The tardy fulfilment of his promise would be the only atonement he
could make_.

Then again, still in Thorpe's voice:

_If the woman is here and you can find your friend, we may help him to
wash the stain of cowardice off his soul_.

"The stain is deep," muttered Anthony Dexter. "God knows it is deep."

Once again came Thorpe's voice, shrilling at him, now, out of the
vibrant silence:

_Sometimes I think there is no sin but shirking. I can excuse a liar,
I can pardon a thief, I can pity a murderer, but a shirk--no_!

"Father always does the square thing."

Evidently, Ralph would like to have his father bring him a
stepmother--a woman whose face had been destroyed by fire--and place
her at the head of his table, veiled or not, as Ralph chose. Terribly
burned, hopelessly disfigured, she must live with them always--because
she had saved him from the same thi