be
endured? Disguises that shrouded her habitual feelings and instincts
even from herself dropped away. That Oliver was left to her did not make
up to her in the least for John's death.

The smart that held her in its grip was a new experience. She had never
felt it at the death of the imperious husband, to whom she had been,
nevertheless, decorously attached. Her thoughts clung to those last
broken words under her hand, trying to wring from them something that
might content and comfort her remorse:

"DEAR LUCY,--I feel ill--it may be nothing--Chide and you may
read this letter. Broadstone couldn't help it. Tell him so.
Bless you--Tell Oliver--Yours, J.F."

The greater part of the letter was all but illegible even by her--but
the "bless you" and the "J.F." were more firmly written than the rest,
as though the failing hand had made a last effort.

Her spiritual vanity was hungry and miserable. Surely, though she would
not be his wife, she had been John's best friend!--his good angel. Her
heart clamored for some warmer, gratefuller word--that might justify her
to herself. And, instead, she realized for the first time the desert she
had herself created, the loneliness she had herself imposed. And with
prophetic terror she saw in front of her the daily self-reproach that
her self-esteem might not be able to kill.

"_Tell Oliver_--"

Did it mean "if I die, tell Oliver"? But John never said anything futile
or superfluous in his life. Was it not rather the beginning of some last
word to Oliver that he could not finish? Oh, if her son had indeed
contributed to his death!

She shivered under the thought; hurrying recollections of Mr.
Barrington's visit, of the _Herald_ article of that morning, of Oliver's
speeches and doings during the preceding month, rushing through her
mind. She had already expressed her indignation about the _Herald_
article to Oliver that morning, on the drive which had been so
tragically interrupted.

"Dear Lady Lucy!"

She looked up. Sir James Chide stood beside her.

The first thing he did was to draw her to her feet, and then to move her
chair into the shade.

"You have lost more than any of us," he said, as she sank back into it,
and, holding out his hand, he took hers into his warm compassionate
clasp. He had never thought that she behaved well to Ferrier, and he
knew that she had behaved vilely to Diana; but his heart melted within
him at the sight of a woman--and a gra