f your past life and
the value of every hour of your agony. Why, it is above price." He
paused ... his voice shook. "It is the gift of God!"

Antony's hands were clasped lightly together; they had been holding each
other with a grip of steel; now they relaxed a bit. He bowed his head a
little from its proud hauteur, and said--

"You are right; you are right."

"Four years ago," continued the voice--Cedersholm had become to him now
only a voice to which he listened in the darkness--"four years ago, if I
had seen the 'Open Door,' I would have appreciated its art as I
recognized the value of your figure which I bought at the Exposition,
but I could not have understood it; its spiritual lesson would have been
lost upon me. You do not know me," he continued, "and I can in no way
especially interest you. But these six years of my life, especially the
last two, have been my Garden of Gethsemane."

He stopped. Antony knew that he had taken out the silk handkerchief
again and wiped his eyes. After a second, Cedersholm said--

"You must have lost some one very near you."

"My wife," said Antony Fairfax.

The other man put out his hand, and he touched Antony's closed hands.

"I have lost my wife as well; she died two years ago."

Cedersholm heard Antony's exclamation and felt him start violently.

"Your wife," he cried, "Mary ... dead ... dead?"

"Yes. Why do you exclaim like that?"

"Not Mary Faversham?"

"Mary Faversham-Cedersholm. Did you know her?"

With a supreme effort Antony controlled himself. His voice suffocated
him.

Dead! He felt again the touch of her lips; he heard again her voice; he
felt her arms around him as she held him in Windsor--"Tony, darling, go!
It is too late."

Oh! the Open Door!

Cedersholm, in the agitation that his own words had produced in himself,
and in his grief, did not notice that Fairfax murmured he had known Mrs.
Cedersholm in Paris.

"My wife was very delicate," he said. "We travelled everywhere. She
faded and my life stopped when she died. To-day, when I saw the 'Open
Door,' it had a message for me that brought me the first solace." Again
his hands sought Fairfax's. "Thank you, brother artist," he murmured;
"you have suffered as I have. You understand."

From where he sat, Fairfax struck a match and lit the candle. Its pale
light flickered up in the big dark room like a lily shining in a tomb.
He said, with a great effort--

"I made a little bas-relief of Mrs. Ceder