ent on to
the Jadwins'.

"I remember," said Laura to Corthell, "that once before the three of us
came home this way. Remember? It was the night of the opera. That was
the night I first met Mr. Jadwin."

"It was the night of the Helmick failure," said Page, seriously, "and
the office buildings were all lit up. See," she added, as they drove up
to the house, "there's a light in the library, and it must be nearly
one o'clock. Mr. Jadwin is up yet."

Laura fell suddenly silent. When was it all going to end, and how?
Night after night her husband shut himself thus in the library, and
toiled on till early dawn. She enjoyed no companionship with him. Her
evenings were long, her time hung with insupportable heaviness upon her
hands.

"Shall you be at home?" inquired Corthell, as he held her hand a moment
at the door. "Shall you be at home to-morrow evening? May I come and
play to you again?"

"Yes, yes," she answered. "Yes, I shall be home. Yes, do come."

Laura's carriage drove the artist back to his apartments. All the way
he sat motionless in his place, looking out of the window with unseeing
eyes. His cigarette went out. He drew another from his case, but forgot
to light it.

Thoughtful and abstracted he slowly mounted the stairway--the elevator
having stopped for the night--to his studio, let himself in, and,
throwing aside his hat and coat, sat down without lighting the gas in
front of the fireplace, where (the weather being even yet sharp) an
armful of logs smouldered on the flagstones.

His man, Evans, came from out an inner room to ask if he wanted
anything. Corthell got out of his evening coat, and Evans brought him
his smoking-jacket and set the little table with its long tin box of
cigarettes and ash trays at his elbow. Then he lit the tall lamp of
corroded bronze, with its heavy silk shade, that stood on a table in
the angle of the room, drew the curtains, put a fresh log upon the
fire, held the tiny silver alcohol burner to Corthell while the latter
lighted a fresh cigarette, and then with a murmured "Good-night, sir,"
went out, closing the door with the precaution of a depredator.

This suite of rooms, facing the Lake Front, was what Corthell called
"home," Whenever he went away, he left it exactly as it was, in the
charge of the faithful Evans; and no mater how long he was absent, he
never returned thither without a sense of welcome and relief. Even now,
perplexed as he was, he was conscious of a fee