that fixed unseeing gaze no longer. He decided to
do what was necessary, with a quiet nod, in response to Margaret O'Mara's
imploring look. He turned back the loose sleeve of the silk nightdress,
one firm hand grasped the soft arm beneath it; the other passed over it
for a moment with swift skilful pressure. Even Margaret's anxious eyes
saw nothing more; and afterwards Myra often wondered what could have
caused that tiny scar upon the whiteness of her arm.

Before long she was quietly asleep. The doctor stood looking down upon
her. There was tragedy to him in this perfect loveliness. Now the clear
candour of the grey eyes was veiled, the childlike look was no longer
there. It was the face of a woman--and of a woman who had lived, and who
had suffered.

Watching it, the doctor reviewed the history of those ten years of wedded
life; piecing together that which she herself had told him; his own
shrewd surmisings; and facts, which were common knowledge.

So much for the past. The present, for a few hours at least, was merciful
oblivion. What would the future bring? She had bravely and faithfully put
from her all temptation to learn the glory of life, and the completeness
of love, from any save from her own husband. And he had failed to teach.
Can the deaf teach harmony, or the blind reveal the beauties of blended
colour?

But the future held no such limitations. The "garden enclosed" was no
longer barred against all others by an owner who ignored its fragrance.
The gate would be on the latch, though all unconscious until an eager
hand pressed it, that its bolts and bars were gone, and it dare swing
open wide.

"Ah," mused the doctor. "Will the right man pass by? Youth teaches youth;
but is there a man amongst us strong enough, and true enough, and pure
enough, to teach this woman, nearing thirty, lessons which should have
been learned during the golden days of girlhood. Surely somewhere on this
earth the One Man walks, and works, and waits, to whom she is to be the
One Woman? God send him her way, in the fulness of time."

* * * * *

And in that very hour--while at last Myra slept, and the doctor watched,
and mused, and wondered--in that very hour, under an Eastern sky, a
strong man, sick of life, worn and disillusioned, fighting a deadly
fever, in the sultry atmosphere of a soldier's tent, cried out in
bitterness of soul: "O God, let me die!" Then added the "never-the-less"