It was
terrible for Lane. That strange cold knot in his breast, that coil of
panic, seemed to spring and tear, quivering through all his body. What
had he known of torture, of sacrifice, of divine selflessness? He
understood now how the loved and guarded woman went down into the
Valley of the Shadow for the sake of a man. Likewise, he knew the
infinite tragedy of a ruined girl who lay in agony, gripped by
relentless nature.

Lane was called into the hall by Mrs. O'Brien. She was weeping.
Bronson met him at the door.

"She's dying," he whispered. "You'd better come in. I've 'phoned to
Doctor Wallace."

Lane went in, almost blinded. The light seemed dim. Yet he saw Rose
with a luminous glow radiating from her white face.

"I feel--so light," she said, with a wan smile.

Lane sat by the bed, but he could not speak. The moments dragged. He
had a feeling of their slow but remorseless certainty.

Then there were soft steps outside--Mrs. O'Brien opened the door--and
Doctor Wallace entered the room.

"My child," he gravely began, bending over her.

Rose's big eyes with their strained questioning gaze sought his face
and Doctor Bronson's and Lane's.

"Rose--are you--in pain?"

"The burning's gone," she said.

"My child," began Doctor Wallace, again. "Your pain is almost over.
Will you not pray with me?"

"No. I never was two-faced," replied Rose, with a weary shake of the
tangled curls. "I won't show yellow now."

Lane turned away blindly. It was terrible to think of her dying
bitter, unrepentant.

"Oh! if I could hope!" murmured Rose. "To see my mother!"

Then there were shuffling steps outside and voices. The door was
opened by Mrs. O'Brien. Old Clymer crossed the threshold. He was
sober, haggard, grieved. He had been told. No one spoke as he
approached Rose's bedside.

"Lass--lass--" he began, brokenly.

Then he sought from the men confirmation of a fear borne by a glance
into Rose's white still face. And silence answered him.

"Lass, if you're goin'--tell me--who was to blame?"

"No one--but myself--father," she replied.

"Tell me, who was to blame?" demanded Clymer, harshly.

Her pale lips curled a little bitterly, and suddenly, as a change
seemed to come over her, they set that way. She looked up at Lane with
a different light in her eyes. Then she turned her face to the wall.

Lane left the room, to pace up and down the hall outside. His thoughts
seemed deadlocked. By and bye, Doctor Bronson