it. It seemed more than ever not to be borne that
he should do that--when I knew _you_ loved me."

"Kathleen," cried her lover, again, "don't dwell on it all so
terribly--don't--"

"How can I forget?" she answered, despairingly. "And then,"--she lowered
her voice,--"oh, I can't tell you--all the time, at the back of my mind
somewhere, there was a burning wish that he might _die_. I used to lie
awake at night, and, do what I would to stifle it, that thought used to
_scorch_ me, I wished it so intensely. Do you believe that by willing
one can bring such things to pass?" she asked, looking at Broomhurst
with feverishly bright eyes. "No? Well, I don't know. I tried to smother
it,--I _really_ tried,--but it was there, whatever other thoughts I
heaped on the top. Then, when I heard the horse galloping across
the plain that morning, I had a sick fear that it was _you_. I knew
something had happened, and my first thought when I saw you alive and
well, and knew it was _John_, was _that it was too good to be true_. I
believe I laughed like a maniac, didn't I? . . . Not to blame? Why, if
it hadn't been for me he wouldn't have died. The men say they saw him
sitting with his head uncovered in the burning sun, his face buried in
his hands--just as I had seen him the day before. He didn't trouble to
be careful; he was too wretched."

She paused, and Broomhurst rose and began to pace the little hillside
path at the edge of which they were seated.

Presently he came back to her.

"Kathleen, let me take care of you," he implored, stooping toward her.
"We have only ourselves to consider in this matter. Will you come to me
at once?"

She shook her head sadly.

Broomhurst set his teeth, and the lines round his mouth deepened. He
threw himself down beside her on the heather.

"Dear," he urged, still gently, though his voice showed he was
controlling himself with an effort, "you are morbid about this. You
have been alone too much; you are ill. Let me take care of you; I _can_,
Kathleen,--and I love you. Nothing but morbid fancy makes you imagine
you are in any way responsible for--Drayton's death. You can't bring him
back to life, and--"

"No," she sighed, drearily, "and if I could, nothing would be altered.
Though I am mad with self-reproach, I feel _that_--it was all so
inevitable. If he were alive and well before me this instant, my feeling
toward him wouldn't have changed. If he spoke to me he would say 'my
dear'--and I should