the evening she returned from Ashborough she could hold out no
longer.

Very quietly she bore that sad return to the empty house, going into all
the familiar rooms and showing no sign of grief, because those she loved
were with her, watching her with the anxious solicitude which people
cannot help showing at such a time though it is usually more of a trial
than a comfort. Erica longed inexpressibly to be alone, and when at
length, deceived by her unnatural calm, they were persuaded to leave
her, she crept down to the study and shut herself in, and no longer
tried to resist the inevitable, the mere surroundings were quite
sufficient to open the flood gates of her grief; the books which her
father had loved, the table, the empty chair, the curious cactus which
they had brought back from Italy, and in the growth of which they had
taken such an interest! the desk at which her father had toiled for
so many long years. She hid her face from the light and broke into a
passionate fit of weeping. Then exhausted, nerveless, powerless, she
could no longer cope with that anguish of remembrance which was her
nightly torment. Once more there rose before her that horrible scene in
the Ashborough market place; once more she could see the glare of light,
the huge crowd, the sudden treacherous movement, the fall; once more she
heard the crash, the hushed murmur; once more felt the wild struggle to
get through that pushing, jostling throng that she might somehow reach
him. That nightmare recollection only gave place to a yet more painful
one, to the memory of days of such agony that to recall them was almost
to risk her reason. She had struggled bravely not to dwell upon these
things, but this night her strength was gone, she could do nothing, and
Brian, coming at last to seek her, found that the climax he had long
foreseen had come.

"Oh," she sobbed, "if you love me, Brian, be willing to let me go! Don't
pray for me to live! Promise that you will not!"

A shade came over Brian's face. Was the dead father still to absorb all
her love? Must he even now resign all to him? Lose Erica at last after
these long years of waiting! There was a look of agony in his eyes, but
he answered quietly and firmly:

"I will pray only that God's will may be done, darling."

A sort of relief was apparent in Erica's flushed, tear-stained face as
though he had given her leave to be ill.

After that, for long, weary weeks, she lay at the very gate of deat