during
the ceremony, stole away in the twilight and came back with a few
flowers. Rodman saw him going down toward the parade-ground, and
watched. The old man had but a few blossoms; he arranged them hastily on
the mounds with many a furtive glance toward the house, and then stole
back, satisfied; he had performed his part.

Ward De Rosset lay on his pallet, apparently unchanged; he seemed
neither stronger nor weaker. He had grown childishly dependent upon his
host, and wearied for him, as the Scotch say; but Rodman withstood his
fancies, and gave him only the evenings, when Miss Bettina was not
there. One afternoon, however, it rained so violently that he was forced
to seek shelter; he set himself to work on the ledgers; he was on the
ninth thousand now. But the sick man heard his step in the outer room,
and called in his weak voice, "Rodman, Rodman." After a time he went in,
and it ended in his staying; for the patient was nervous and irritable,
and he pitied the nurse, who seemed able to please him in nothing. De
Rosset turned with a sigh of relief toward the strong hands that lifted
him readily, toward the composed manner, toward the man's voice that
seemed to bring a breeze from outside into the close room; animated,
cheered, he talked volubly. The keeper listened, answered once in a
while, and quietly took the rest of the afternoon into his own hands.
Miss Ward yielded to the silent change, leaned back, and closed her
eyes. She looked exhausted and for the first time pallid; the loosened
dark hair curled in little rings about her temples, and her lips were
parted as though she was too tired to close them; for hers were not the
thin, straight lips that shut tight naturally, like the straight line of
a closed box. The sick man talked on. "Come, Rodman," he said, after a
while, "I have read that lying verse of yours over at least ten thousand
and fifty-nine times; please tell me its history; I want to have
something definite to think of when I read it for the ten thousand and
sixtieth."

"Toujours femme varie,
Bien fou qui s'y fie;
Une femme souvent
N'est qu'une plume au vent,"

read the keeper slowly, with his execrable English accent. "Well, I
don't know that I have any objection to telling the story. I am not sure
but that it will do me good to hear it all over myself in plain language
again."

"Then it concerns yourself," said De Rosset; "so much the better. I hope
it will be, as the ch