es she took up one of the books and read a
page or two, letting the beat of the verse lull her throbbing brain, or
the strong words of stoic wisdom sink into her heart. And even when
there was no time for these brief flights from reality, it soothed her
to feel herself in the presence of great thoughts--to know that in this
room, among these books, another restless baffled mind had sought escape
from the "dusty answer" of life. Her hours there made her think less
bitterly of Amherst--but also, alas, made her see more clearly the
irreconcilable difference between the two natures she had striven to
reunite. That which was the essence of life to one was a meaningless
shadow to the other; and the gulf between them was too wide for the
imagination of either to bridge.

As she sat there on the seventh afternoon there was a knock on the door
and Wyant entered. She had only time to notice that he was very
pale--she had been struck once or twice with his look of sudden
exhaustion, which passed as quickly as it came--then she saw that he
carried a telegram, and her mind flew back to its central anxiety. She
grew pale herself as she read the message.

"He has been found--at Corrientes. It will take him at least a month to
get here."

"A month--good God!"

"And it may take Mr. Langhope longer." Their eyes met. "It's too
long----?" she asked.

"I don't know--I don't know." He shivered slightly, turning away into
the window.

Justine sat down to dash off messages to Mr. Tredegar and the Gaineses:
Amherst's return must be made known at once. When she glanced up, Wyant
was standing near her. His air of intense weariness had passed, and he
looked calm and ready for action.

"Shall I take these down?"

"No. Ring, please. I want to ask you a few questions."

The servant who answered the bell brought in a tea-tray, and Justine,
having despatched the telegrams, seated herself and began to pour out
her tea. Food had been repugnant to her during the first anguished
unsettled days, but with the resumption of the nurse's systematic habits
the nurse's punctual appetite returned. Every drop of energy must be
husbanded now, and only sleep and nourishment could fill the empty
cisterns.

She held out a cup to Wyant, but he drew back with a gesture of
aversion.

"Thanks; I'm not hungry."

"You ought to eat more."

"No, no. I'm very well."

She lifted her head, revived by the warm draught. The mechanical act of
nourishment perform