grew frantic. He
neglected business, spent much money in telegraph tolls, and was at last
relieved by a letter from Emmeline relating Edna's severe illness, her
close sailing to the perilous gate, and her slow recovery. He was told
not to come over as they were on the point of starting for Switzerland
where the invalid had been ordered. Frank felt happy for the first time
since his wife had gone away. After that, letters began again--old
currents ran smooth and the climax came with the wonderful news.

He would go to Paris--go in a few months, go without writing. Then,
gaining the beautiful city, he would read the announcements of Edna's
singing. With what selfish, subtle joy would he buy a box and listen to
the voice of his beautiful wife, watch the lithe figure, hear the
applause after her aria! He had sworn this was to reward his long months
of loneliness, of syncopated hopes, of tiresome labor; his profession
had become unleavened drudgery. Perhaps Edna would make him her business
man, her constant companion. Ah! what enchantment to stand in the
_coulisses_ and hold her wraps while she floated near the footlights on
the pinions of song. He would give up his distasteful practice and
devote the remainder of his life to the service of a great artist, hear
all the music he longed for, see the Paris of his dreams.

The door opened. Plunged in reverie he felt that this was but an
extension of his vision. "Edna!" he cried and flung wide his arms.
"Frank, you dear old boy, how thin you've grown! Heavens! You're not
sick? Wait, wait until I raise the window." She pushed up the sash
noisily and Frank felt the brisk air on his temples. He smiled though
his heart nipped sadly. It was Edna, Edna his wife in the flesh; and the
excitement of holding her in his willing arms drove from his brain the
vapors of idle hope. She was looking down at him a strong, handsome girl
with eyes too bright and hair too golden. "Edna," he cried, "your hair,
what have you done to your lovely black hair?" "There's a salute from a
loving husband. No surprise, though I've dropped from the clouds. But my
hair is quizzed. Now, what do you mean, Frank Etharedge?" Both were
agitated, both endeavored to dissemble. Then his eyes fell on the
cablegram. He started.

"In the name of God, Edna, is anything the matter? This cable! Why are
you here? Are you in trouble?" The dark shadows under her eyes lightened
at the commonplace questions. She had time to tune