hand to a London
address, and forwarded thence. It bore the Denga postmark.

And another for herself, readdressed from London by Madame Bornier. She
tore off the outer envelope; beneath was a letter of which the address
was feebly written in Warkworth's hand: "Mademoiselle Le Breton, 3
Heribert Street, London."

She had the strength to carry her own letter to her room, to call
Aileen's maid and send her with the other packet to Lady Blanche. Then
she locked herself in....

Oh, the poor, crumpled page, and the labored hand-writing!

"Julie, I am dying. They are such good fellows, but they can't save me.
It's horrible.

"I saw the news of your engagement in a paper the day before I left
Denga. You're right. He'll make you happy. Tell him I said so. Oh, my
God, I shall never trouble you again! I bless you for the letter you
wrote me. Here it is.... No, I can't--can't read it. Drowsy. No pain--"

And here the pen had dropped from his hand. Searching for something
more, she drew from the envelope the wild and passionate letter she had
written him at Heribert Street, in the early morning after her return
from Paris, while she was waiting for Delafield to bring her the news of
Lord Lackington's state.

* * * * *

The small _table d'hote_ of the Hotel Michel was still further
diminished that night. Lady Blanche was with her daughter, and Mrs.
Delafield did not appear.

But the moon was hanging in glory over the lake when Julie, unable to
bear her room and her thoughts any longer, threw a lace scarf about her
head and neck, and went blindly climbing through the upward paths
leading to Les Avants. The roads were silver in the moonlight; so was
the lake, save where the great mountain shadows lay across the eastern
end. And suddenly, white, through pine-trees, "Jaman, delicately tall!"

The air cooled her brow, and from the deep, enveloping night her torn
heart drew balm, and a first soothing of the pulse of pain. Every now
and then, as she sat down to rest, a waking dream overshadowed her. She
seemed to be supporting Warkworth in her arms; his dying head lay upon
her breast, and she murmured courage and love into his ear. But not as
Julie Le Breton. Through all the anguish of what was almost an illusion
of the senses, she still felt herself Delafield's wife. And in that
flood of silent speech she poured out on Warkworth, it was as though she
offered him also Jacob's compassion, Jacob's ho