his sort of thing, haven't you? Well, it
ought to square accounts for a much worse life than yours will ever be."

He knelt beside her, saying, brokenly: "I stayed because I wanted to be
with you, that's all. I have never cared about other women since I
knew you in New York when I was a lad. You are a part of my destiny, and
I could not leave you if I would."

She put her hands on his shoulders and shook her head. "No, no; don't
tell me that. I have seen enough tragedy. It was only a boy's fancy,
and your divine pity and my utter pitiableness have recalled it for a
moment. One does not love the dying, dear friend. Now go, and you will
come again tomorrow, as long as there are tomorrows." She took his hand
with a smile that was both courage and despair, and full of infinite
loyalty and tenderness, as she said softly:

_"For ever and for ever, farewell, Cassius;
If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;
If not, why then, this parting was well made."_

The courage in her eyes was like the clear light of a star to him as he
went out.

On the night of Adriance Hilgarde's opening concert in Paris, Everett sat
by the bed in the ranch-house in Wyoming, watching over the last battle
that we have with the flesh before we are done with it and free of it for
ever. At times it seemed that the serene soul of her must have left
already and found some refuge from the storm, and only the tenacious
animal life were left to do battle with death. She laboured under a
delusion at once pitiful and merciful, thinking that she was in the
Pullman on her way to New York, going back to her life and her work. When
she roused from her stupor, it was only to ask the porter to waken her
half an hour out of Jersey City, or to remonstrate about the delays and
the roughness of the road. At midnight Everett and the nurse were left
alone with her. Poor Charley Gaylord had lain down on a couch outside the
door. Everett sat looking at the sputtering night-lamp until it made his
eyes ache. His head dropped forward, and he sank into heavy, distressful
slumber. He was dreaming of Adriance's concert in Paris, and of
Adriance, the troubadour. He heard the applause and he saw the flowers
going up over the footlights until they were stacked half as high as the
piano, and the petals fell and scattered, making crimson splotches on the
floor. Down this crimson pathway came Adriance with his youthful step,
leading his singer by the hand; a dark woman this time, w