he would have invited death from out
of the night--he felt that he was no longer utterly in the hands of the
woman he loved. And something stronger than he could resist impelled
him to announce his presence at the door.

At his knock there fell a sudden silence beyond the thick panels. For
several moments he waited, holding his breath. Then he heard quick
steps, the door swung slowly open, and he faced Josephine.

"Pardon me for interrupting you," he apologized in a low voice. "Your
father sent me for you and your mother. He says that you must come and
wake the baby."

Slowly Josephine held out a hand to him. He was startled by its
coldness.

"Come in, Philip," she said. "I want you to meet my mother."

He entered into the warm glow of the room. Slightly bending over a
table stood the slender form of a woman, her back toward him. Without
seeing her face he was astonished at her striking resemblance to
Josephine--the same slim, beautiful figure, the same thick, glowing
coils of hair crowning her head--but darker. She turned toward him, and
he was still more amazed by this resemblance. And yet it was a
resemblance which he could not at first define. Her eyes were very dark
instead of blue. Her heavy hair, drawn smoothly back from her forehead,
was of the deep brown that is almost black in the shadow. Slimness had
given her the appearance of Josephine's height. She was still
beautiful. Hair, eyes, and figure gave her at first glance an
appearance of almost girlish loveliness.

And then, all at once, the difference swept upon him. She was like
Josephine as he had seen her in that hour of calm despair when she had
come to him at the canoe. Home-coming had not brought her happiness.
Her face was colourless, her cheeks slightly hollowed, in her eyes he
saw now the lustreless glow which frequently comes with a fatal
sickness. He was smiling and holding out his hand to her even as he saw
these things, and at his side he heard Josephine say:

"Mother, this is Philip."

The hand she gave him was small and cold. Her voice, too, was
wonderfully like Josephine's.

"I was not expecting to see you to-night, Philip," she said. "I am
almost ill. But I am glad now that you joined us. Did I hear you say
that my husband sent you?"

"The baby is holding his thumb," laughed Philip. "He says that you must
come and wake him. I doubt if you can get him out of the baby's room
to-night."

The voice of Adare himself answered from th