tioned that Lydia was fond of dancing he could not
listen to a strain of dance music. Christmas was a particularly trying
time to him, with all its assumption of rejoicing--a prison Christmas!

During the holidays he was in New York for a few days. His theory was
that lack of exercise was the reason for his not sleeping better. He
used to take long walks in the afternoon and evening so as to go to bed
tired.

One afternoon at twilight he was walking round the reservoir in the Park
when he recognized something familiar in a trim little figure
approaching him--something that changed the beat of his heart. It was
Miss Bennett. He stopped her, uncertain of his reception.

"Is that Mr. O'Bannon?" she said, staring up at him in the dim light.

The city beyond the bare trees had begun to turn into a sort of
universal lilac mist, punctuated with yellow dots of light. It was too
dark for Miss Bennett to see any change in O'Bannon's appearance,
anything ravaged and worn, anything suggesting an abnormal strain. Miss
Bennett, though kind and gentle, was not imaginative about turbulent,
irregular emotions, such as she herself did not experience. She was not
on the lookout for danger signals.

She did not feel unfriendly to O'Bannon. On the contrary she admired
him. She could, as she said, see his side of it. She prided herself on
seeing both sides of every question. She greeted him cordially as soon
as she was sure it was he. He turned and walked with her. They had the
reservoir to themselves.

Miss Bennett thought it more tactful not to refer to Lydia. She began
talking about the beauty of the city. Country people always spoke as if
all natural beauty were excluded from towns, but for her part----

O'Bannon suddenly interrupted her.

"Have you seen Miss Thorne lately?" he said in a queer, quick, low tone.

When Benny felt a thing she could always express it. This was fortunate
for her because when she expressed it she relieved the acuteness of her
own feeling. She very naturally, therefore, sought the right phrase,
even sometimes one of an almost indecent poignancy, because the more
poignantly she made the other person feel the more sure she could be of
her own relief. Then, too, she was not sorry that O'Bannon should
understand just what it was he had done--his duty, perhaps, but he might
as well know the consequences.

"Have I seen her?" she exclaimed. "Oh, Mr. O'Bannon!" There was a pause
as if it were too terrible to