e than that, he was a Cornishman." In a few
moments Mr. Lanhearne had sent for his own physician and a trained
nurse, and he went himself to the side of the sick man until help
arrived.

Toward night Roland became very restless, and with a distressing
effort constantly murmured the word "Denasia." Mr. Lanhearne thought
he understood the position exactly, and he had a very pardonable
hesitation in granting the half-made request. But the monotonous
imploring became full of anguish, and he finally took his daughter
into his councils and asked what ought to be done.

"Denasia ought to be here," answered Ada. "I have her address. Let
Davis go for her."

"But, my dear! you do not understand that she may--that she is,
perhaps, not what we should call a good woman."

"Dear father, who among us all is good? Even Christ said, 'Why callest
thou Me good? There is none good save one, that is God.' We know
nothing wrong of her with certainty. Why not give her the benefit of
the doubt? Are we not compelled to be thus generous with all our
acquaintances?"

So Denasia was sent for. She was sitting alone in her comfortless
room. The baby was gone away for ever. Thinking of the lonely darkness
of the cemetery, with the cold earth piled high above the little
coffin, she felt a kind of satisfaction in her own shivering solitude
and silence. She was as far as possible keeping with the little form a
dreary companionship. Yet she had been expecting Roland and was
greatly pained at his apparent neglect.

When Davis knocked at the door she said drearily, "Come in." She
thought it was her husband at last.

"Are you Mademoiselle Denasia?" inquired a strange voice.

A quick sense of trouble came to her; she stood up and answered
"Yes."

"There is a gentleman at our house, Mr. Tresham; he is very ill
indeed. He asks for you constantly. Mr. Lanhearne thinks you ought to
come to him at once."

"I am ready."

She spoke with a dreary patience and instantly put on her cloak and
hat. Not another word was said. She asked no questions. She had
reached that point where women arrest all their feelings and wait. The
splendid house, the light, the warmth, all the evidences of a
luxurious life about, moved her no more than if she was in a dream. A
great sorrow had put her far above these things. She followed the
servant who met her at the door without conscious volition. A woman
going to execution could hardly have felt more indifference to the