houlders.

"Well," he said, "I have no lover, no wife; but I have a companion, a
friend--one in a million." And again the black funeral trailed its slow
length before his eyes, and he shuddered.

I have not sought to deceive the reader. He knows as well as I do that
at this moment the door opened, and a young and beautiful woman stood on
the threshold. Her eyes were shining; round her neck were gleaming
pearls. She was playing for a high stake, and being a true woman she had
disdained no honest artifice that might help her. She wore shining white
silk, severely plain, and her brown hair was dressed high on her head. A
woman one shade less intuitive would have let the dusky masses fall over
a lace-covered tea-gown.

"Michael," she said, "I am your wife. Are you going to forgive me?"

He raised himself slowly from his chair, and his eyes dwelt on detail
after detail of the beauty before him.

"My wife!" he said. "You are a stranger!"

"I _did_ disguise myself well. My sister told me about your
advertisement; she lives with Sylvia Maddox. We each have a hundred
pounds a year. At first I did it for fun; but when I had seen how--how
nice you were--my mother is very poor. There are no excuses. But are you
going to forgive me?" Any other woman, to whom forgiveness meant all
that it meant to her, might have kneeled at his feet. Frances stood
erect by the door. "Anyway," she said, biting her lip, "I have saved you
from Sylvia. For the sake of that, forgive me."

That stung him, as she had known it would.

"Forgive you?" he said. "Never. You've spoiled my life." But he took a
step towards her as he spoke.

She took an equal step back.

"Take courage," she said. "Who knows but I may die before next June,
after all. Good night."

"I hate you," he said, and took another step forward. But the door
closed in his face.

Next morning the old lady, white haired and mittened, appeared behind
the breakfast tea. Michael almost thought he had dreamed, till her eyes,
now without their glasses, met his timidly.

"Let us end this play-acting, at least," he said. Ten minutes of fuming
ended in tepid tea poured by a beautiful brown-haired girl.

He watched her in silence.

"It's horrible," he broke out. "You're a strange woman, and there you
sit, pouring tea out as if---- Who are you? I don't know you."

"Don't you?" she said quietly. And then he remembered all the old talks
with the old wife.

"I beg your pardon," he said.