ping. Long, bitter sobs shook her frame and
seemed to tear their way out of her body. She was like a woman
wrenched upon the rack. Harlenden could do nothing but stand and wait,
his own face twisted with pain, until the storm was past. Gradually it
died away, with longer and longer intervals between the shuddering
sighs. At last, she uncovered her face, bleached and ravaged by the
tearless storm, yet wearing a gentler beauty than ever it had known,
and rose trembling to her feet.

"Take me home, Denis," she whispered. He wrapped her veil about her
and she felt the thrill of his hands upon her, but he did not kiss her.
They had come closer to each other than any kiss could bring them.
Just as they were passing from the room, she remembered something and
stepped back.

"I must touch that vile thing again," she said, "because it does not
belong to me and must go back to where it came from." She stooped and
picked the black, glittering object from the floor.

A spasm contracted Harlenden's face, but he asked no question.
Silently they went from the house and into the dark streets. There was
no moon. At her gate, he stooped and kissed her lips.

Mrs. Ozanne got up the morning of the following day with the urgent
feeling on her of something to be done. It seemed as if there were
some move to be made that would help her and her children in their
unhappiness, only she didn't know what the move was. But she always
remembered, afterward, with what feverish urgency she dressed, putting
on walking-things instead of a wrapper, and stepping from her room into
the bustling atmosphere of the house with a determined indifference to
the tasks and interests that usually occupied her attention.

Rosalie was as surprised to see her mother dressed for going out as was
the mother to find her daughter at the breakfast-table.

"Why, Rosalie, my darling, this is an unexpected joy!"

"Yes, mother; I thought I would make an effort."

It was the first time that the girl had been out of her room for over
two weeks, and she looked frail as a snowdrop, and nearly as white.

"You can't have two daughters sick abed, you know," she added, with a
wistful smile.

"Is Rosanne still----" Mrs. Ozanne often left questions and remarks
about her other daughter unfinished.

The latter had spent the whole of the previous day in her room, seeming
physically unable to leave her bed.

"Yes; I'm afraid she's really ill. She just lies there,