an in her, arose on her deathbed and screamed to her, screamed
insane things. If a certain voice is too long ignored, its dictates seem
at last insane.

"Take him back all the same!" gasped the dying voice. "Marry him.
Devote yourself to him, day and night. Cure him. Set him up. You love
him. Love can do it, if anything can."

"I can't do it," groaned Marion. "Mother tried, but it was no good."

"Then do as she did, try and fail."

"I can't. He would break my heart."

"Let him break it."

Marion strangled the terrible, urgent voice with fury, and then cried as
if her heart would indeed break. The silenced voice spoke no more.

* * * * *

The play was a great success. Delacour, who had recently returned from
America, was the making of it. Lenore was the first to acknowledge it,
though his success was at her expense. Her part seemed only as a foil to
the sombre splendour of his.

The play ran and ran.

Delacour made no further effort to speak to Marion. He avoided her
systematically. He, on his side, was watched, was spied on, was
protected from himself, was never given a chance of yielding to
temptation. His self-imposed gaoler loved him. He was very lovable. The
manager was enthusiastic. Ignorant people said he was reformed. It
almost seemed as if he might grasp the great position to which his
talent entitled him. But how often before he had fallen just when he was
doing well! No one could depend on him. His record in America gradually
became known. It was a record of hideous outbreaks and cancelled
engagements.

By dint of the strenuous will of others, to which he yielded himself, he
was kept on his feet through the whole run of the play.

And then, released from surveillance, exhausted in mind and body--he
fell again.

He blazed like a comet across the theatrical world, and then set as
suddenly as he had risen.

Marion heard of it and shuddered. She had had a narrow escape.

* * * * *

She never wrote another play--at least, she never wrote another that
pleased a manager. She said she had not time. In spite of her success,
she felt a distaste for things theatrical. And perhaps she found that
success is not as warm a garment for a shivering life as she had
expected. There is a little fleecy wrap called affection, within the
reach of all of us, which she might have donned. But, as she often said,
there was, unfortunately, no one for whom