undertow. He battled hard and
if he could not battle long it was because the measure of his strength
was not a matter of his own choosing. For a while he held a position as
organist in a church--and during those days he brought home the only
revenue which came in. But that did not last. The truth must be told.
Paul's fastidious spirit sickened at the sordid and tawdry, and when he
discovered one day, through the unkind offices of a vagabond violinist,
that it was possible to reconstruct a dream world, even in the midst of
want and poverty, his hunger for tranquillity triumphed over his
resolve. With a hypodermic needle he picked the lock--and threw open the
gate of dreams. To himself he said that it was only a temporary
indulgence, to be put aside when he had conquered the agonies of that
sleeplessness which had of late tortured him. Mary, deprived of his aid,
fought on alone, with all the fighting courage of the Burton blood at
its best--and fought hopelessly.

Elizabeth Burton could not be left alone. Her mind had crumbled into
such pitiful decay that her care chained the daughter in a rigorous
confinement. Now even the opportunity for seeking employment was denied
her.

The ruin of the Burton family was as total and complete as if fate were
bent on tallying measure for measure their past magnificence. The
quarters which Yamuro had chosen were given up and lodgings taken of a
far meaner sort.

If Mary needed a final twisting of the knife in her wounded life it came
when there stood between them and the streets a single asset, and she
went to realize on that, haggling with a pawnbroker over her engagement
ring.

Marcia Terroll came back to town for a brief stay between engagements
and stopped with Dorothy Melliss at their old rooms. She had not dared
to ask any question about Paul, and the other girl would have refrained
from volunteering information had she possessed it. Indeed, it would
have been unlikely that Dorothy would know anything of the submerged
Burtons in this city where lives may run out parallel spans almost door
to door, and never touch. But one evening as Marcia was crossing the
square, just after the lights began to glow, a human derelict sidled up
to her and accosted her with a mumbled petition for alms. The man was
old and his clothes though neatly patched were threadbare and worn. His
face, too, was seamed and his breath was alcoholic.

"Madam," he said in a low voice as he fell into step with