rsuaded him not to
come down. But he is dressed, and reading and writing. We don't believe
he has slept at all for a week."

* * * * *

"Through there," said Susan Delafield, stepping back. "That is the
door."

[Illustration: "SHE FOUND HERSELF KNEELING BESIDE HIM"]

Julie softly opened it, and closed it behind her. Delafield had heard
her approach, and was standing by the table, supporting himself upon it.
His aspect filled Julie with horror. She ran to him and threw her
arms round him. He sank back into his chair, and she found herself
kneeling beside him, murmuring to him, while his head rested upon
her shoulder.

"Jacob, I am here! Oh, I ought to have been here all through! It's
terrible--terrible! But, Jacob, you won't suffer so--now I'm here--now
we're together--now I love you, Jacob?"

Her voice broke in tears. She put back the hair from his brow, kissing
him with a tenderness in which there was a yearning and lovely humility.
Then she drew a little away, waiting for him to speak, in an agony.

But for a time he seemed unable to speak. He feebly released himself, as
though he could not bear the emotion she offered him, and his
eyes closed.

"Jacob, come and lie down!" she said, in terror. "Let me call the
doctors."

He shook his head, and a faint pressure from his hand bade her sit
beside him.

"I shall be better soon. Give me time. I'll tell you--"

Then silence again. She sat holding his hand, her eyes fixed upon him.
Time passed, she knew not how. Susan came into the room--a small
sitting-room in the east wing--to tell her that the neighboring bedroom
had been prepared for herself. Julie only looked up for an instant with
a dumb sign of refusal. A doctor came in, and Delafield made a painful
effort to take the few spoonfuls of food and stimulant pressed upon him.
Then he buried his face in the side of the arm-chair.

"Please let us be alone," he said, with a touch of his old
peremptoriness, and both Susan and the doctor obeyed.

But it was long before he could collect energy enough to talk. When he
did, he made an effort to tell her the story of the boy's death, and the
father's self-destruction. He told it leaning forward in his chair, his
eyes on the ground, his hands loosely joined, his voice broken and
labored. Julie listened, gathering from his report an impression of
horror, tragic and irremediable, similar to that which had shaken the
balance of his own m