f her bust and shoulders were
broken or inverted. The once full, rounded arm was shrunken in its
sleeve; and the golden hoops that encircled her wan wrists almost
slipped from her hands as her long, scant fingers closed convulsively
around Jack's. Her cheekbones were painted that afternoon with the
hectic of fever: somewhere in the hollows of those cheeks were buried
the dimples of long ago, but their graves were forgotten. Her lustrous
eyes were still beautiful, though the orbits were deeper than before.
Her mouth was still sweet, although the lips parted more easily over the
little teeth, even in breathing, and showed more of them than she was
wont to do before. The glory of her blond hair was still left: it was
finer, more silken and ethereal, yet it failed even in its plenitude to
cover the hollows of the blue-veined temples.

"Clara!" said Jack reproachfully.

"Oh, forgive me, Jack!" she said, falling into a chair, but still
clinging to his hand--"forgive me, dear; but I could not wait longer. I
should have died, Jack--died before another night. Bear with me a little
longer (it will not be long), but let me stay. I may not see her, I
know; I shall not speak to her: but it's so sweet to feel that I am at
last near her, that I breathe the same air with my darling. I am better
already, Jack, I am indeed. And you have seen her today? How did
she look? What did she say? Tell me all, everything, Jack. Was she
beautiful? They say she is. Has she grown? Would you have known
her again? Will she come, Jack? Perhaps she has been here already;
perhaps"--she had risen with tremulous excitement, and was glancing at
the door--"perhaps she is here now. Why don't you speak, Jack? Tell me
all."

The keen eyes that looked down into hers were glistening with an
infinite tenderness that none, perhaps, but she would have deemed them
capable of. "Clara," he said gently and cheerily, "try and compose
yourself. You are trembling now with the fatigue and excitement of your
journey. I have seen Carry; she is well and beautiful. Let that suffice
you now."

His gentle firmness composed and calmed her now, as it had often done
before. Stroking her thin hand, he said, after a pause, "Did Carry ever
write to you?"

"Twice, thanking me for some presents. They were only schoolgirl
letters," she added, nervously answering the interrogation of his eyes.

"Did she ever know of your own troubles? of your poverty, of the
sacrifices you made to p