e
bed, and he sank into a heavy, distressful slumber. He was dreaming of
Adriance's concert in Paris, and of Adriance, the troubadour, smiling
and debonair, with his boyish face and the touch of silver gray in
his hair. He heard the applause and he saw the roses going up over the
footlights until they were stacked half as high as the piano, and the
petals fell and scattered, making crimson splotches on the floor. Down
this crimson pathway came Adriance with his youthful step, leading his
prima donna by the hand; a dark woman this time, with Spanish eyes.

The nurse touched him on the shoulder; he started and awoke. She
screened the lamp with her hand. Everett saw that Katharine was awake
and conscious, and struggling a little. He lifted her gently on his arm
and began to fan her. She laid her hands lightly on his hair and looked
into his face with eyes that seemed never to have wept or doubted. "Ah,
dear Adriance, dear, dear," she whispered.

Everett went to call her brother, but when they came back the madness of
art was over for Katharine.

Two days later Everett was pacing the station siding, waiting for the
westbound train. Charley Gaylord walked beside him, but the two men had
nothing to say to each other. Everett's bags were piled on the truck,
and his step was hurried and his eyes were full of impatience, as he
gazed again and again up the track, watching for the train. Gaylord's
impatience was not less than his own; these two, who had grown so close,
had now become painful and impossible to each other, and longed for the
wrench of farewell.

As the train pulled in Everett wrung Gaylord's hand among the crowd of
alighting passengers. The people of a German opera company, en route
to the coast, rushed by them in frantic haste to snatch their breakfast
during the stop. Everett heard an exclamation in a broad German dialect,
and a massive woman whose figure persistently escaped from her stays in
the most improbable places rushed up to him, her blond hair disordered
by the wind, and glowing with joyful surprise she caught his coat sleeve
with her tightly gloved hands.

"_Herr Gott_, Adriance, _lieber Freund_," she cried, emotionally.

Everett quickly withdrew his arm and lifted his hat, blushing. "Pardon
me, madam, but I see that you have mistaken me for Adriance Hilgarde.
I am his brother," he said quietly, and turning from the crestfallen
singer, he hurried into the car.

The Garden Lodge

When Caro