er, even now, if we were to part. I have always that dread upon my
soul, that I am destined to bring you suffering--misfortune--"

"Bring me what you will," he interrupted passionately, "but do not speak
of parting! Rather suffering and trial at your hands, oh, my life's
love, than the greatest peace and prosperity from any other woman's!"

"I wish you loved me less," she said sadly. "But I am not forbidden to
accept your love now; only, I have warned you, do not forget. And
now--" she added suddenly: "Put me to sleep... it is so long, so long,
since I have known real rest, such as you used to give me."

He rose slowly and stood beside her, as she nestled back amidst her
cushions. A strange calm and chill seemed to fold him in its peace, and
the throbbing fires of pain and longing died slowly out of vein and
pulse. He laid one hand gently on the beautiful white brow; his eyes
met hers, and the glance seemed like a command. The lids drooped, the
long, soft lashes fell like a fringe on the delicate, flushed cheek.
One long, sobbing breath left her lips; then a beautiful serenity and
calm seemed to enfold her. Like a statue, she lay there, motionless,
stirless; lifeless, one would have thought, save for the faint regular
breath that stole forth from the parted lips.

Julian Estcourt stood for a moment in perfect silence by her side. Then
he moved away, and, drawing aside the _portieres_ which separated the
boudoir from the adjoining room, he called softly to her maid.
"Felicie," he said, "your mistress will sleep for two hours; see that
she is not disturbed."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once out in the cool night-air, Julian Estcourt gave the rein to thought
and memory. The march of events had been rapid. It seemed difficult to
realise that he really stood in the light of an accepted lover to the
woman who, but the previous day, he deemed at the other end of the
world... difficult to realise that she loved him--and had loved him
through all the blank, desolate years of absence and suffering they had
both endured.

Her warning came ever and again like a living voice across the fevered
train of his thoughts. But he was no whit more inclined to listen to it
here, in the calmness and soberness of solitude, than when her own lips
had spoken it, and the charm of her own presence had swept away prudence
and self-restraint.

"It may not be wise," he said in his hea