er hotel to the elevator, when she stopped
with a violent start and clutching the air, was caught by her nurse who
had hurried up at the first intimation of anything unusual in the
condition of her patient.

The cause of this agitation was immediately apparent. Near them sat two
ladies, each with a small wine-glass in her hand. One was drinking, the
other waiting and watching, but with every apparent intention of drinking
when the other had ceased. A common sight enough, but it worked a
revolution in Carmel's darkened mind. The light of youthful joyousness
fled from her face; and the cheek, just pulsing softly with new life,
blanched to the death-like hue of mortal suffering. Dropping her eyes
from the women, who saw nothing and continued to sip their wine in happy
ignorance of the soul-tragedy going on within ten feet of them, she
looked down at her dress, then up at the walls about her; and then
slowly, anxiously, and with unmistakable terror, at the woman in whose
arms she felt herself supported.

"Explain," she murmured. "Where am I?"

"At Lakewood, in a hotel. You have been ill, and are only just
recovering."

Her hand went up to her cheek, the one that had been burned, and still
showed the deep traces of that accident.

"I remember," said she. Then with another glance at her dress, which had
studiously been kept cheerful, she remarked, with deep reproach: "My
sister is dead; why am I not in black?"

The nurse, realising her responsibility (she said afterwards that it was
the most serious moment of her life), subdued her own astonishment at
this proof of her young patient's knowledge of a crime of which she was
universally supposed to be entirely ignorant, and, bestowing a reassuring
smile on the agitated girl, observed softly:

"You wore too ill to be burdened with black. You are better now and may
assume it if you will. I will help you buy your mourning."

"Yes, you look like a kind woman. What is your name, please, and are we
here alone in this great hotel?"

Now, as a matter of expediency--to save Carmel from the unendurable
curiosity of the crowd, and herself from the importunities of the New
York reporters, Miss Unwin had registered herself and her charge under
assumed names. She was, therefore, forced to reply:

"My name is Huckins, and we are here alone. But that need not worry you.
I have watched over you night and day for many weeks."

"You have? Because of this slight burn?" Again Carmel's h