pitying instant was she out of his sight.

Farther on, doubtless, as he thought, she would come closer. She might
throw back her veil as she had done on that terrible night, or lay her
cold hand on his--she might even speak to him. What hideous
conversations they might have--he and the woman he had once loved and
to whom he was still bound! Anthony Dexter knew now that even his
marriage had not released him and that Evelina had held him, through
all the five-and-twenty years.

Such happiness as he had known had been purely negative. The thrill of
joyous life had died, for him, the day he took Evelina into the
laboratory. He was no longer capable of caring for any one except
Ralph. The remnant of his cowardly heart was passionately and wholly
given to his son.

He meditated laying his case before Ralph. as one physician to
another, then the inmost soul of him shuddered at the very thought.
Rather than have Ralph know, he would die a thousand deaths. He would
face the uttermost depths of hell, rather than see those clear, honest
eyes fixed upon him in judgment.

He might go to the city to see a specialist--it would be an easy matter
to accomplish, and Ralph would gladly attend to his work. Yes, he
might go--he and Evelina. He could go to a brother physician and say:

"This woman haunts me. She saved my life and continually follows me.
I want her kept away. What, do you not see her, too?"

Anthony Dexter laughed harshly, and fancied that the veiled figure
paused slightly at the sound. "No," he said, aloud, "you need not
prepare for travel, Evelina. We shall not go to the city--you and I."

That was his mate, walking in his garden before him, veiled. She was
his and he was hers. They were mated as two atoms of hydrogen and one
of oxygen, forming a molecule of water. All these years, her suffering
had reacted upon him, kept him from being happy, and made him fight
continually to keep her out of his remembrance. For having kept her
out, he was paying, now, with compound interest.

Upon a lofty spire of granite stands a wireless telegraph instrument.
Fogs are thick about it, wild surges crash in the unfathomable depths
below; the silence is that of chaos, before the first day of creation.
Out of the emptiness, a world away, comes a message. At the first
syllable, the wireless instrument leaps to answer its mate. With the
universe between them, those two are bound together, inextricably,
eternally