a down on a chair by the pillow to
turn white and cold.

When Jane came into the sitting-room, she stood long looking at the
manuscript. At last she picked it up, and, still standing, read it
through. When she had finished, she stood a long time with it in her
hand. At last she shrugged her shoulders and sat down. She wrote to
Milly.

"Here is the story. I don't know how I've done it, but here it
is. Do read it--because I really am a little mad, and if it's
any good, send it in at once to the _Monthly Multitude_. I
slept all last night. I shall soon be well now. Everything is
so delightful, and the air is splendid. A thousand thanks for
sending me here. I am enjoying the rest and change
immensely.--Your grateful

"JANE."

She read it through. Her smile at the last phrase was not pretty to see.

When the long envelope was posted, Jane went down to the quiet shore and
gazed out over the sunlit sands to the opal line of the far receding
tide.

The story was written. There was an end to the conflict of agonies, so
now the fiercer agony had the field to itself.

"I suppose I shall learn to bear it presently," she told herself. "I
wish I had not forgotten how to cry. I am sure I ought to cry. But the
story is done, anyway. I daresay I shall remember how to cry before the
next story has to be done."

There were two more nights and one whole day. The nights had islands of
sleep in them--hot, misty islands in a river of slow, crawling, sluggish
hours. The day was light and breezy and sunny, with a blue sky
cloud-flecked. The day was worse than the nights, because in the day she
remembered all the time who she was, and where.

It was on the last day of the week. She was sitting rigid in the little
porch, her eyes tracing again and again with conscious intentness the
twisted pattern of the budding honeysuckle stalks. A rattle of wheels
suddenly checked came to her, and she untwisted her stiff fingers and
went down the path to meet Milly--a pale Milly, with red spots in her
cheeks and fierce, frowning brows--a Milly who drew back from the
offered kiss and spoke in tones that neither had heard before.

"Come inside. I want to speak to you."

The new disaster thus plainly heralded moved Jane not at all. There was
no room in her soul for any more pain. In the little dining-room,
conscientiously "quaint" with its spotted crockery dogs and corner
c