of it was only made manifest
for all to see.

This hidden passion in him, as he talked, seemed to lay a fiery hand on
Constance, she trembled under it, conscience-stricken. "Does he see the
same hateful thing in me?--though he never says a word to hurt
me?--though he is so gentle and so courteous?"

* * * * *

A tall figure became visible at the end of the street. Connie shut up
her writing and ran upstairs to put on her things. When she came down,
she found Sorell waiting for her with a furrowed brow.

"How is he?" She approached him anxiously. Sorell's look changed and
cleared. Had she put on her white dress, had she made herself a vision
of freshness and charm, for the poor boy's sake? He thought so; and his
black eyes kindled.

"Better in some ways. He is hanging on your coming. But these are
awfully bad times for the nurses--for all of us."

"I may take him some roses?" she said humbly, pointing to a basket she
had brought in with her.

Sorell smiled assent and took it from her. As they were speeding in a
hansom towards the Portland Place region, he gave her an account of the
doctors' latest opinion. It seemed that quite apart from the
blood-poisoning, which would heal, the muscles and nerves of the hand
were fatally injured. All hope of even a partial use of it was gone.

"Luckily he is not a poor man. He has some hundreds a year. But he had a
great scheme, after he had got his Oxford degree, of going to the new
Leschetizsky school in Vienna for two years, and then of giving concerts
in Warsaw and Cracow, in aid of the great Polish museum now being formed
at Cracow. You know what a wild enthusiasm he has for Polish history and
antiquities. He believes his country will rise again, and it was his
passion--his most cherished hope--to give his life and his gift to her.
Poor lad!"

The tears stood in Connie's eyes.

"But he can still compose?" she urged piteously.

Sorell shrugged his shoulders.

"Yes, if he has the heart--and the health. I never took much account
before of his delicacy. One can see, to look at him, that he's not
robust. But somehow he was always so full of life that one never thought
of illness in connection with him. But I had a long talk with one of the
doctors last week, who takes rather a gloomy view. A shock like this
sometimes lets loose all the germs of mischief in a man's constitution.
And his mother was undoubtedly consumptive. Well, we must do ou