e did not dare to think.

It was not until two mornings later that Hugh tossed her across the
breakfast table a pink envelope with a wide flap and rough edges. Its
sender had taken advantage of the law that permits one-cent stamps for
local use.

"Who's your friend, Honora?" he asked.

She tried to look calmly at the envelope that contained her fate.

"It's probably a dressmaker's advertisement," she answered, and went on
with the pretence of eating her breakfast.

"Or an invitation to dine with Mrs. Simpson," he suggested, laughingly,
as he rose. "It's just the stationery she would choose."

Honora dropped her spoon in her egg-cup. It instantly became evident,
however, that his remark was casual and not serious, for he gathered
up his mail and departed. Her hand trembled a little as she opened the
letter, and for a moment the large gold monogram of its sender danced
before her eyes.

"Dear Madam, Permit me to thank you in the name of the Trustees of
the Grenoble Hospital for your generous contribution, and believe
me, Sincerely yours,

"MARIA W. SIMPSON."

The sheet fluttered to the floor.

When Sunday came, for the first time her courage failed her. She had
heard the wind complaining in the night, and the day dawned wild and
wet. She got so far as to put on a hat and veil and waterproof coat;
Starling had opened the doors, and through the frame of the doorway, on
the wet steps, she saw the footman in his long mackintosh, his umbrella
raised to escort her to the carriage. Then she halted, irresolute. The
impassive old butler stood on the sill, a silent witness, she knew, to
the struggle going on within her. It seemed ridiculous indeed to play
out the comedy with him, who could have recited the lines. And yet she
turned to him.

"Starling, you may send the coachman back to the stable."

"Very good, madam."

As she climbed the stairs she saw him gravely closing the doors. She
paused on the landing, her sense of relief overborne by a greater sense
of defeat. There was still time! She heard the wheels of the carriage
on the circle--yet she listened to them die away. Starling softly caught
the latch, and glanced up. For an instant their looks crossed, and she
hurried on with palpitating breast, reached her boudoir, and closed
the door. The walls seemed to frown on her, and she remembered that the
sitting-room in St. Louis had worn that same look when, as a child,
she had feigned i