hand.
Even her dignified reserve could not ward off the well-meant
congratulations, the eager questions, the interested comments on the news
contained in the three last paragraphs of the column that was signed "Gold
Pen." Then came the telephone message from Lady Hannah. We know what words
of hers the wire carried back. All the more firm, all the more courageous,
all the more determined that her knees shook, and her heart was as water
within her. For the Thing that coiled in the dark would surely strike now.

Perhaps it was some premonition of approaching death that made her, always
gracious, always infinitely kind, untiring in helpful deeds, move about
among the sick that day, with such a sorrowful-sweet tenderness for them
in her noble face and in her gentle touch, and in that wood-dove's voice
of hers, that they spoke of it long afterwards with bated breath. A
perfume as of rare incense was wafted from the folds of her veil, they
said, and a pale aureole of light shone about her white-banded forehead,
and her eyes---- Ah! who that met their look could ever forget those eyes?

It was before twilight when she left the Hospital and went to the Convent,
a tall, upright, mantled and hooded figure, stepping through the heavy
rain that had fallen since noon, under a quaint monster of a cotton
umbrella with ribs of ancient whale,--Tragedy carrying Farce.

It was not the custom to linger in the neighbourhood of the Convent, even
among those who were most indifferent to shot and shell. No one was
visible in its vicinity, except one burly, bushy-bearded, dark-skinned man
in tan-cords and a moleskin jacket. He lounged against a bent and twisted
lamp-post, near the broken entrance-gates, cutting up a lump of something
that might have been cake-tobacco upon his broad, thick palm with a
penknife.

She passed him as she went in. His slouched hat made shadow for his eyes.
But so curiously shallow and flat and rusty pale were they against the
purplish-brown of the full-blooded, bearded face, that their sharp, sly,
sudden look as she went by was as though the adder-fangs had slashed at
her. She knew it was the man who had written those two letters. And
something else she knew, but did not dare to admit her knowledge even to
herself as yet.

She mustered all her forces to meet what was coming as she went up the
broken stairs. The wind and the long, driving lances of the rain came at
her through the gaps in the walls. The sky was a d