e
dull.

As dinner bade fair to be a silent function, Madame turned to Edith with
the first question that came into her mind.

"What have you been doing all the afternoon?"

"Packing," replied Edith, with dry lips.

[Sidenote: Nothing to Say]

"Or rather, getting ready to pack." She did not look at Alden, but at
Madame, with a wan little smile that made the old lady's heart suddenly
very tender toward her.

"My dear! We'll miss you so."

"I know," Edith murmured, "and I shall miss you--more than words may
say, but I have to go." She drained the glass of water at her plate,
then added: "My husband wants me to come back. He has written to say
so."

"Then," said Madame, "I suppose you will have to go."

"I suppose so," repeated Edith, parrot-like.

Alden's eyes never swerved from Edith's white face. In their depths was
the world-old longing, the world-old appeal, but never for the fraction
of an instant did Edith trust herself to look at him.

When they rose from the table, Edith went back to her room immediately,
murmuring an excuse. Alden watched her despairingly until the hem of her
white gown was lost at the turn of the stairs. Then he sat down with the
paper, but he could not read, for the words zig-zagged crazily along the
page.

Madame understood and sincerely pitied them both, but there seemed to be
nothing to say. She leaned back in her chair, with her eyes closed,
pretending to be asleep, but, in reality, watching Alden as he stared
vacantly at the paper he held in his shaking hands.

[Sidenote: Poor Comfort]

At last he rose and went out upon the veranda. Madame started from her
chair, then forced herself to lean back again, calmly. She heard the
scraping of his chair as he moved it along the veranda, out of the way
of the light that came through the open window. For a long time there
was silence.

Longing to comfort him and unable to endure it longer, Madame went out,
softly. He did not hear her step, for his head was bowed upon his hands.
From a room above Edith's light streamed out afar into the sweet
darkness, drawing toward it all the winged wayfarers of the night.

Madame slipped her arm around his shoulders, and bent down to him.
"Dear," she said brokenly, "she's married."

Alden drew a quick, shuddering breath, and freed himself roughly from
the tender clasp. "I know it, Mother," he cried, in a voice vibrant with
pain. "For God's sake, don't remind me of that!"

XVIII

St