hame of premeditated toil. She knew now why he had
stammeringly refused to receive her father's offer to buy back the
goods he had given him; she knew now how hardly gained was the pittance
that paid his rent and supported his childish vanity and grotesque
pride. From a peg in the corner hung the familiar masquerade that hid
his poverty--the pearl-gray trousers, the black frock-coat, the tall
shining hat--in hideous contrast to the penury of his surroundings. But
if _they_ were here, where was _he_, and in what new disguise had he
escaped from his poverty? A vague uneasiness caused her to hesitate and
return to the open door. She had nearly reached it when her eye fell on
the pallet which it partly illuminated. A singular resemblance in the
ragged heap made her draw closer. The faded quilt was a dressing-gown,
and clutching its folds lay a white, wasted hand.

The emigrant childhood of Rose Nott had been more than once shadowed by
scalping-knives, and she was acquainted with Death. She went fearlessly
to the couch, and found that the dressing-gown was only an enwrapping
of the emaciated and lifeless body of De Ferrieres. She did not retreat
or call for help, but examined him closely. He was unconscious, but not
pulseless; he had evidently been strong enough to open the door for air
or succor, but had afterwards fallen into a fit on the couch. She flew
to her father's locker and the galley fire, returned, and shut the door
behind her, and by the skillful use of hot water and whiskey soon had
the satisfaction of seeing a faint color take the place of the faded
rouge in the ghastly cheeks. She was still chafing his hands when he
slowly opened his eyes. With a start, he made a quick attempt to push
aside her hand and rise. But she gently restrained him.

"Eh--what!" he stammered, throwing his face back from hers with an
effort and trying to turn it to the wall.

"You have been ill," she said quietly. "Drink this."

With his face still turned away he lifted the cup to his chattering
teeth. When he had drained it he threw a trembling glance round the
room and at the door.

"There's no one been here but myself," she said quickly. "I happened to
see the door open as I passed. I didn't think it worth while to call
any one."

The searching look he gave her turned into an expression of relief,
which, to her infinite uneasiness, again feebly lightened into one of
antiquated gallantry. He drew the dressing-gown around him with