illed with hours of sleeplessness and torment. He waited for
three-quarters of an hour, and then the idea came to him that he might
discover some plausible excuse for seeking out his host. He was about
to act upon this mental suggestion when he heard a low rustling in the
hall, followed by a distinct and yet timid knock. It was not a man's
knock, and filled with the hope that Jeanne had returned, Philip
hastened to the door and opened it.

He heard soft footsteps retreating rapidly down the hall, but the
lights were out, and he could see nothing. Something had fallen at his
feet, and he bent down to pick it up. The object was a small, square
envelope; and re-entering his room he saw his own name written across
it in Jeanne's delicate hand. His heart beat with hope as he opened the
note. What he read brought a gray pallor into his face:

MONSIEUR PHILIP,--If you cannot forget what I have done, please at
least try to forgive me. No woman in the world could value your love
more than I, for circumstances have proven to me the strength and honor
of the man who gives it. And yet it is as impossible for me to accept
it as it would be for me to give up Fort o' God, my father, or my life,
though I cannot tell you why. And this, I know, you will not ask. After
what has happened to-night it will be impossible for me to see you
again, and I must ask you, as one who values your friendship among the
highest things in my life, to leave Fort o' God. No one must know what
has passed between us. You will go--in the morning. And with you there
will always be my prayers.

JEANNE.

The paper dropped from between Philip's fingers and fell to the floor.
Three or four times in his life Philip had received blows that had made
him sick--physical blows. He felt now as though one of these blows had
descended upon him, turning things black before his eyes. He staggered
to the big chair and dropped into it, staring at the bit of white paper
on the floor. If one had spoken to him he would not have heard.
Gregson, in these moments, might have laughed a little nervously,
smoked innumerable cigarettes, and laid plans for a continuance of the
battle to-morrow. But Philip was a fighter of men, and not of women. He
had declared his love, he had laid open his soul to Jeanne, and to a
heart like his own, simple in its language, boundless in its sincerity,
this was all that could be done. Jeanne's refusal of his love was the
end--for him. He accepted his