of
me is being torn away. Surely, even death cannot be so terrible!"

A clock on the table struck eight. Instantly she raised herself in
bed, fell back again, gave a deep sigh, and lay still.

A few hours later, she woke with a gentle flush in her cheeks and a
wonderful harmony in all her features. Her first glance fell upon her
mother leaning over the foot of the bed, and she gave a happy smile.

"Oh, mother, I have had such a lovely dream! I dreamed Dick was well
and coming back soon to Rosalie."

"And so he is, my darling. She has had a wire to say that Doctor
Raymond has discovered that the throat trouble is not malignant but
quite curable. He will be well in a few weeks."

"Then it _may_ come true, my dream," she said softly and shyly. "My
dream that she and I were being married on the same day, she to Dick,
and I to--oh, Denis, how strange that you should be here when I was
dreaming of you! What brought you here? Have you come to tell mother
that we love each other?"

They began to realize dimly then, as they realized fully later on,
that, by a merciful gift of Providence her mind was a blank concerning
all the dark things of the past.

Memory of them had died with the dying of the Malay woman at eight
o'clock on a summer evening, and no shadow of them ever came back to
dim the harmony of her life with Denis Harlenden.

She is one of the happiest as well as one of the loveliest women in
London today. Wrapped up in her home life and children, she still
finds time to be seen about everywhere with her husband, and they are
looked upon as one of the few ideally happy couples in society.

It has often been remarked, as a curious fact, that she never wears
jewels of any kind, save an emerald ring and some exquisite pearls.

April Folly

PART I

Waterloo Station, greasy underfoot and full of the murky, greenish gloom
of a November day, was the scene of a jostling crowd. The mail-boat
train for South Africa stretched far down the long platform, every
carriage door blocked by people bidding farewell, handing in bouquets of
flowers, parcels of books, boxes of chocolates; bartering jests and
scattering laughter; sending their love to the veld, to Table Mountain,
to Rhodesia, to the Victoria Falls.

Only one first-class reserved compartment had no crowd before it, nor any
further audience than a middle-aged woman, with a wistful Irish face and
the neat and careful appearance peculiar to su