ng, if she had not actually saved
his life.

The walls of the room swayed, the furniture moved dizzily, the floor
undulated. Anthony Dexter reeled and fell--in a dead faint.

"Are you all right now, Father?" It was Ralph's voice, anxious, yet
cheery. "Who'd have thought I'd get another patient so soon!"

Doctor Dexter sat up and rubbed his eyes. Memory returned slowly;
strength more slowly still.

"Can't have my Father fainting all over the place without a permit,"
resumed Ralph. "You've been doing too much. I take the night work
from this time on."

The day wore into late afternoon. Doctor Dexter lay on the couch in
the library, the phantom Evelina persistently at his side. His body
had failed, but his mind still fought, feebly.

"There is no one here," he said aloud. "I am all alone. I can see
nothing because there is nothing here."

Was it fancy, or did the veiled woman convey the impression that her
burned lips distorted themselves yet further by a smile?

At dusk, there was a call. Ralph received from his father a full
history of the case, with suggestions for treatment in either of two
changes that might possibly have taken place, and drove away.

The loneliness was keen. The empty house, shorne of Ralph's sunny
presence, was unbearable. A thousand memories surged to meet him; a
thousand voices leaped from the stillness. Always, the veiled figure
stood by him, mutely accusing him of shameful cowardice. Above and
beyond all was Thorpe's voice, shrilling at him:

_The honour of the spoken word still holds him . . . he was never
released . . . he slunk away like a cur . . . he is bound to her still
. . . there is no sin but shirking_ . . .

Over and over again, the words rang through his consciousness. Then,
like an afterclap of thunder:

_Father always does the square thing_!

The dam crashed, the barrier of years was broken, the obstructions were
swept out to sea. Remorse and shame, no longer denied, overwhelmingly
submerged his soul. He struggled up from the couch blindly, and went
out--broken in body, crushed in spirit, yet triumphantly a man at last.

XIV

A Little Hour of Triumph

Miss Evelina sat alone in her parlour, which was now spotlessly clean.
Araminta had had her supper, her bath, and her clean linen--there was
nothing more to do until morning. The hard work had proved a blessing
to Miss Evelina; her thoughts had been constantly forced away from
herself.