fed birds and fish testified to the doctor's holiday
recreation. At the girl's approach the butler rose from a bench near
the door, his expression unconsciously sobering, to match her own.

All day long he ushered patients into that dull back room, and escorted
them to the door after the all-important interview; he had grown skilful
in divining the nature of the verdict which each one had received.
Occasionally a friend or a relation of the patient came out from that
room in tears, but the patient himself rarely wept. He walked with
mechanical steps; he stared before him with blank, unseeing eyes, as
this young lady stared to-day. She was young, too, good-looking, nicely
dressed; the butler was moved to a sigh of regret as he flung open the
heavy oak door.

The girl who was never to marry walked out into the glare of the
streets, and turned mechanically towards the west.

CHAPTER TWO.

FACING THE MUSIC.

Jean Goring sat in her boudoir, awaiting the return of her friend and
guest, Sunblinds were drawn over the windows, the chairs and sofas were
covered with linen, the cushions with dainty muslins; the carpet was a
stretch of dull, moss-like green; the only bright notes of colour in the
room were to be found in the masses of freshly cut roses which adorned
the various tables, and in that most radiant flower of all, Jean
Goring's face.

The laces of the white peignoir, the muslin of the frilled cushion
showed out in almost startling beauty the dark mist of hair; the
exquisitely flushed cheeks, dark brows, and curling lashes gave a
deepened shade to the violet blue of the eyes. The rich brunette
colouring had a somewhat un-English aspect, yet there was not a drop of
foreign blood in the girl's veins--she was Irish "all through, except my
mother, who was Scotch," as she herself was accustomed to describe her
lineage. The contour of her face was oval, the profile showed the
delicate fineness of a cameo. Happy Jean! her beauty was no light gift
to pass away with her loss of youth; beautiful she was now, beautiful
she must always remain. Age, sorrow, suffering might do their worst;
those who looked on would ever find her the perfection of her type. If
she lived to be eighty she would be as essentially an artist's model as
she was now at twenty-two.

The clock struck four. Jean put down her book and raised her head from
the cushion to listen to the sound of an approaching footstep. The door
opened, and she