ripped the pen, while his breath
sucked between his dry teeth.

"Certainly!" he said when he could speak. "Mackinac, August 27, 1908.
Philip Ammon, Lake Shore Hospital, Chicago." He paused with suspended
pen and glanced at Edith. Her white lips were working, but no sound
came. "Miss Comstock is with the Terence O'Mores, on Mackinac Island,"
prompted Henderson.

Edith nodded.

"Signed, Henderson," continued the big man.

Edith shook her head.

"Say, 'She is well and happy,' and sign, Edith Carr!" she panted.

"Not on your life!" flashed Henderson.

"For the love of mercy, Hart, don't make this any harder! It is the
least I can do, and it takes every ounce of strength in me to do it."

"Will you wait for me here?" he asked.

She nodded, and, pulling his hat lower over his eyes, Henderson ran
around the shore. In less than an hour he was back. He helped her a
little farther to where the Devil's Kitchen lay cut into the rocks; it
furnished places to rest, and cool water. Before long his man came with
the boat. From it they spread blankets on the sand for her, and made
chafing-dish tea. She tried to refuse it, but the fragrance overcame
her for she drank ravenously. Then Henderson cooked several dishes and
spread an appetizing lunch. She was young, strong, and almost famished
for food. She was forced to eat. That made her feel much better. Then
Henderson helped her into the boat and ran it through shady coves of
the shore, where there were refreshing breezes. When she fell asleep the
girl did not know, but the man did. Sadly in need of rest himself,
he ran that boat for five hours through quiet bays, away from noisy
parties, and where the shade was cool and deep. When she awoke he took
her home, and as they went she knew that she had been mistaken. She
would not die. Her heart was not even broken. She had suffered horribly;
she would suffer more; but eventually the pain must wear out. Into her
head crept a few lines of an old opera:

"Hearts do not break, they sting and ache,
For old love's sake, but do not die,
As witnesseth the living I."

That evening they were sailing down the Straits before a stiff breeze
and Henderson was busy with the tiller when she said to him: "Hart, I
want you to do something more for me."

"You have only to tell me," he said.

"Have I only to tell you, Hart?" she asked softly.

"Haven't you learned that yet, Edith?"

"I want you to go away."

"Very well," he s