s of a wounded animal.

McLean sent a great box of flowers that day. She put them, for lack of a
vase, in a pitcher beside Jimmy's bed.

At dusk a telegram came to say that Stewart was better and that Peter
was on his way down to Vienna. He would arrive at eight. Time was
very short now--seconds flashed by, minutes galloped. Harmony stewed
a chicken for supper, and creamed the breast for Jimmy. She fixed the
table, flowers in the center, the best cloth, Peter's favorite cheese.
Six o'clock, six-thirty, seven; Marie was telling Jimmy a fairy tale and
making the fairies out of rosebuds. The studylamp was lighted, the stove
glowing, Peter's slippers were out, his old smoking-coat, his pipe.

A quarter past seven. Peter would be near Vienna now and hungry. If he
could only eat his supper before he learned--but that was impossible.
He would come in, as he always did, and slam the outer door, and open it
again to close it gently, as he always did, and then he would look for
her, going from room to room until he found her--only to-night he would
not find her.

She did not say good-bye to Jimmy. She stood in the doorway and said a
little prayer for him. Marie had made the flower fairies on needles, and
they stood about his head on the pillow--pink and yellow and white elves
with fluffy skirts. Then, very silently, she put on her hat and jacket
and closed the outer door behind her. In the courtyard she turned and
looked up. The great chandelier in the salon was not lighted, but from
the casement windows shone out the comfortable glow of Peter's lamp.

CHAPTER XXI

Peter had had many things to think over during the ride down the
mountains. He had the third-class compartment to himself, and sat in a
corner, soft hat over his eyes. Life had never been particularly simple
to Peter--his own life, yes; a matter of three meals a day--he had had
fewer--a roof, clothing. But other lives had always touched him closely,
and at the contact points Peter glowed, fused, amalgamated. Thus he had
been many people--good, indifferent, bad, but all needy. Thus, also,
Peter had committed vicarious crimes, suffered vicarious illnesses,
starved, died, loved--vicariously.

And now, after years of living for others, Peter was living at last for
himself--and suffering.

Not that he understood exactly what ailed him. He thought he was tired,
which was true enough, having had little sleep for two or three
nights. Also he explained to himself t