red her commonplaces at
random, stirring uneasily to and fro between window and fireside, and at
length halting behind the table at which she sat.

"May I ask how much longer you mean to stay here?" he said in a low
voice, his eyes darkening under the sullen jut of the brows.

As she glanced up in surprise she noticed for the first time an odd
contraction of his pupils, and the discovery, familiar enough in her
professional experience, made her disregard the abruptness of his
question and softened the tone in which she answered. "I hardly know--I
suppose as long as I am needed."

Wyant laughed. "Needed by whom? By John Amherst?"

A moment passed before Justine took in the full significance of the
retort; then the blood rushed to her face. "Yes--I believe both Mr. and
Mrs. Amherst need me," she answered, keeping her eyes on his; and Wyant
laughed again.

"You didn't think so till Amherst came back from Hanaford. His return
seems to have changed your plans in several respects."

She looked away from him, for even now his eyes moved her to pity and
self-reproach. "Dr. Wyant, you are not well; why do you wait to see Mrs.
Amherst?" she said.

He stared at her and then his glance fell. "I'm much obliged--I'm as
well as usual," he muttered, pushing the hair from his forehead with a
shaking hand; and at that moment the sound of Bessy's voice gave Justine
a pretext for escape.

In her own room she sank for a moment under a rush of self-disgust; but
it soon receded before the saner forces of her nature, leaving only a
residue of pity for the poor creature whose secret she had surprised.
She had never before suspected Wyant of taking a drug, nor did she now
suppose that he did so habitually; but to see him even momentarily under
such an influence explained her instinctive sense of his weakness. She
felt now that what would have been an insult on other lips was only a
cry of distress from his; and once more she blamed herself and forgave
him.

But if she had been inclined to any morbidness of self-reproach she
would have been saved from it by other cares. For the moment she was
more concerned with Bessy's fate than with her own--her poor friend
seemed to have so much more at stake, and so much less strength to bring
to the defence of her happiness. Justine was always saved from any
excess of self-compassion by the sense, within herself, of abounding
forces of growth and self-renewal, as though from every lopped
aspirati