ry white. As though in contradiction to his ill-looks, however, his
eyes were unusually brilliant and clear, and his manner almost buoyant.

"Forgive me, Monsieur Feurgeres," I said, "but it seems to me that you
had better rest for a while. You have been travelling longer than I
have, and you are tired."

He smiled at me almost gaily.

"On the contrary," he declared, "I never felt more vigorous. I----"

He stopped short, and walked the length of the room. When he returned he
was very grave, but the smile was still upon his lips. He laid his hand
almost affectionately upon my shoulder.

"My dear friend," he said softly, "I think that you are the only one to
whom I have felt it possible to speak of the things which lie so near my
heart. For I think that you, too, are one of those who know, and who
must know, what it is to suffer. We who carry the iron in our hearts,
you know, are sometimes drawn together. The things which we may hide
from the world we cannot hide from one another. Only for you there is
hope, for me there has been the wonderful past. People have pitied me
often, my friend, for what they have called my lonely life. They little
know! I am not a sentimentalist. I speak of real things. Isobel, my
wife, died to the world and was buried. To me she lives always. Just
now--I have been with her. She sat in her old chair, and her eyes smiled
again their marvellous welcome to me. Only--and this is why I speak to
you of these things--there was a difference."

He was silent for a few minutes. When he continued, his voice was a
little softer but no less firm.

"Dear friend," he said, "I will be honest. When Isobel was taken from me
I had days and hours of hideous agony. But it was the craving for her
body only, the touch of her lips, the caress of her hands, the sound of
her voice. Her spirit has been with me always. At first, perhaps, her
coming was faint and indefinable, but with every day I realized her more
fully. I called her, and she sat in her box and watched me play, and
kissed her roses to me. I close the door upon the world and call her
back to her room, call her into my arms, whisper the old words, call her
those names which she loves best--and she is there, and all my burden of
sorrow falls away. My friend, a great love can do this! A great, pure
love can mock even at the grave."

I clasped his hand in mine.

"I think," I said, "that I will never pity you again. You have triumphed
even over Fate--e