know why I am telling you, for no one else must know it, not even Sidney
himself. He doesn't suspect it at all now, and I mean that he never
shall. If I made the mistake in the first place, I ought to be the one
to suffer for it, not he."

"But he loves you now," Miss Gannion said unsteadily.

"To-day. Yesterday, he forgot me entirely; to-day, he cares for me just
as he always has done, no more, no less. I wish I could care for him;
but I can't. I feel perfectly cold, as if nothing more could ever warm
me."

"But, in time--after you have forgotten last night--"

Beatrix shook her head.

"My love for Sidney did not die, last night. It was too strong, too much
alive, to be killed by the facts of one single night. No; it had been
ailing for months; but it finally died, six weeks ago, and nothing now
can ever make it live again. Miss Gannion, I have been very selfish."

"I don't think so, Beatrix."

But Beatrix gently drew herself out of Miss Gannion's arms, rose and
stood looking down at her friend. In that moment, confronted by
Beatrix's sad, calm face and luminous eyes, the little gray-haired
woman suddenly realized that, notwithstanding the difference in their
years, Beatrix was looking into mysteries which were far beyond her ken.

"Yes, I was selfish," Beatrix went on steadily. "I loved Sidney; I was
happy in his love, and I believed that, through both our loves, I could
be strong enough to save him from himself. I knew it was a risk, a
terrible risk, but I took it for granted that the risk would come only
on myself, and, for both our sakes, I was willing to assume it. I was
nothing but a child, for all I felt so wise, and I stopped there,
without looking ahead. I was wrong, woefully, sinfully wrong. I was
selfish, for I thought of nothing beyond myself. Now that it is too
late, I am beginning to realize what it all may mean to the next
generation."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"_O the long and dreary Winter!
O the cold and cruel Winter!_"

Thayer's voice was wonderfully rich and mellow, as he stood at the
window softly singing over to himself that haunting, tragic Famine Theme
from _The Death of Minnehaha_. Fresh from its weeks of resting, low, yet
suggesting an immeasurable reserve power, it had all its old throbbing
magnetism; but a new quality had been added to it. It had always had
moments of passionate appeal; now it had gained a sadness, a depth of
melancholy which in the past it had been p