uched nearer the fire,
her eyes devouring it--her thoughts crowding on the darkness. Those
terrible men had been silent seven weeks--more than seven--desperate
weeks... not a word out of the darkness--and she could not cry out to
them--perhaps they would not tap the wires again! The thought confronted
her and she sprang up and walked wildly, her pulses beating in her
temples.... She stopped by a table and looked down. A little vial lay
there, and the medicine dropper and wine glass--waiting. She turned her
head uneasily and moved away. She must save it for the night--for the
dark hours that never passed. But she must think of something! She
glanced about her, and rang the bell sharply, and waited.

"I want the Greek boy," she said, "send him to me!"

"Yes, madame." Marie's voice hurried itself away... and Alcibiades stood
in the doorway, looking in.

The woman turned to him--a little comfort shining in the sleepless eyes.
"Come in," she said, "I want to talk to you--tell me about Athens--the
sun shines there!" She glanced again at the hearth and shivered.

The boy came in, flashing a gleam through the dark day. The little
sadness of the night before had gone. He was alive and lithe and happy.
He came over to her, smiling... and she looked at him curiously. "What
have you been doing all day?" she asked.

"I play," said Alcibiades, "I play--on flute--" His fingers made little
music gestures at his lips, and fell away. "And I--run--" he said, "I go
in rain--and run--and come in." He shook his dark head. Little gleams of
moisture shone from it. The earth seemed to breathe about him.

She drew a quick breath. "You shall tell me," she said, "but not here."
She glanced about the room filled with sickness and wild thoughts--not
even the boy's presence dispelled them. "We will go away somewhere--to
the gallery," she said quickly, "it is lighter there and I have not been
there--for weeks." Her voice dropped a little.

The boy followed her through the hall, across a covered way, to the
gallery that held the gems--and the refuse--that Philip Harris had
gathered up from the world. She looked about her with a proud,
imperious gesture. She knew--better now than when the pictures were
purchased--which ones were good, and which were very bad; but she could
not interfere with the gallery. It was Philip's own place in the house.
It had been his fancy--to buy pictures--when the money came pouring in
faster than they could spend it--