he first time. Then he folded it, slowly and precisely, and
put it into the torn envelope. He tapped on the arm of the chair for a
moment with the edge of the envelope, then, mechanically, put it into
his pocket.

[Sidenote: Effect upon Alden]

A robin, in a maple tree beyond him, piped his few notes with unbearable
intensity. Discordant chirps assailed his ears from the lattice where
the climbing rose put forth its few last blooms. Swaying giddily in a
crazy pattern upon the white floor of the veranda, was the shadow of the
rose, the plaything of every passing wind. He remembered the moonlight
night which might have been either yesterday or in some previous life,
as far as his confused perceptions went, when Edith had stood with the
rose in her hand, and the clear, sharply-defined shadow of it had been
silhouetted at her feet.

All his senses seemed mercilessly acute. Some of the roses were almost
dead and the sickening scent of them mingled with the fragrance of those
that had just bloomed. It made him dizzy--almost faint.

The maid announced luncheon, but food, or the sight of his mother were
among the last things he desired, just then. Affecting not to hear, he
went out, got a boat, and rowed far up the river alone.

When he was utterly exhausted, he shipped the oars and let himself drift
back, pushing out from shore now and then when the current brought him
too near. He knew, with crushing certainty, that Edith would not be
swerved from her chosen path by argument--but he could at least try.

[Sidenote: A Silent Function]

White-faced and weary, he went to his room when he reached home, lay
down, and tried to sleep, but sleep would not come. He seemed to have
come to a point of absolute bodily suspension, neither to hunger nor
thirst nor sleep again. It was, in a way, like a clock, that ticks
steadily, though the hands are definitely fixed at a certain hour and
will not move.

He forced himself to dress for dinner and to go down at the proper time.
Madame was waiting, but Edith was late. When she appeared, she was in
the white linen gown she had worn all day, with the withered rose in her
belt. It was the first evening she had not dressed for dinner and she at
once apologised to Madame.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but it seemed impossible to make the effort
to-night. You'll forgive me, won't you?"

"Of course," Madame returned sweetly.

"Of course," Alden echoed. His voice sounded distant and his eyes wer