ame with increasing vehemence. "I
want his arms. I want him as he is. I want his body--I cannot love a
ghost. No! no!" she added in a low, hopeless voice. "When he goes out
I lose him, and lose him as mine forever. Oh, what do I care for your
spirit love! The old Greeks were right. They are shades--shades, mere
shades beyond the river. I don't want a shade. I want a man, a strong,
warm-hearted, brave man. Yes, a good man, a man with a soul. But a MAN,
not a SOUL. My God!" she moaned, "how terrible it all is! And it came so
near to us to-day. But I should not be saying this to you, played out as
you are. I am going to bed. Good-night."

She put out her hand and gripped his in warm, strong, muscular fingers.
"Thank God, yes God, if you like, you are still--still in this outer
circle,"--she broke into a laugh, but there was little mirth in her
laughter--"this good old outer circle, yet awhile."

"Yes," said Barry simply but very earnestly, "thank God. It is a good
world. But with all my soul I believe there is a better, and all that is
best in love and life we shall take with us. Good-night," he added, "and
thank you, at least for the will and the attempt to save my life."

"Sleep well," she said.

"I hope so," he replied, "but I doubt it."

His doubts, it turned out, were justified, for soon after midnight Mr.
Howland was aroused by Harry Hobbs in a terror of excitement.

"Will you come to Mr. Dunbar, sir?" he cried. "I think he is dying."

"Dying?" Mr. Howland was out of his cot immediately and at Barry's side.
He found him fighting for breath, his eyes starting from his head, a
look of infinite distress on his face.

"My dear boy, what is it? Hobbs says you are dying."

"That con-con-founded--fool--shouldn't have--called you. I
forbade--him," gasped Barry.

"But, my dear boy, what is the matter? Are you in pain?"

"No, no,--it's--nothing--only an old--friend come back--for a call,--a
brief one--let us--hope. It's only asthma. Looks bad--feels worse--but
really--not at all dangerous."

"What can be done, my boy?" asked Mr. Howland, greatly relieved, as
are most laymen, when the trouble can be named. It is upon the terror
inspired by the unknown that the medical profession lives.

"Tell Harry--to make--a hot drink," said Barry, but Harry had already
forestalled the request, and appeared with a steaming bowl. "This
will--help. Now--go to--bed, Mr. Howland. Do, please.--You distress--me
by remaining--there. H