(God forgive me!) at the utter cruelty of it all.
But she was not dead. As I watched the lovely ashen face, the slow
blood came trickling back and throbbed faintly at her temples, the
light breath flickered and went and came once more. Feebly and with
wonder the dark eyes opened to the light of day, then closed again as
the lips parted in a moaning whisper.

"Claire!" I cried, and my voice seemed to come from far away, so
hollow and unnatural was it, "I must take you to your home; are you
well enough to go?"

I had laid her on the stone upon which the bearers were used to set
down the coffins when weary. Scarcely a week ago, poor Tom's corpse
had rested for a moment upon this grim stone. As I bent to catch the
answer, and saw how like to death her face was, I thought how well it
were for both of us, should we be resting there so together; not
leaving the acre of the dead, but entering it as rightful heirs of
its oblivion.

After a while, as I repeated my question, the lips again parted and I
heard.

I looked down the road. The cemetery lay far out in one of the
northern suburbs, and just now the neighbourhood seemed utterly
deserted. By good chance, however, I spied an old four-wheeler
crawling along in the distance. I ran after it, hailed it, brought
it back, and with the help of the wondering driver, placed my love
inside; then I gave the man the address, and bidding him drive with
all speed, sprang in beside Claire.

Still faint, she was lying back against the cushion. The cab crawled
along at a snail's pace, but long as the journey was, it was passed
in utter silence. She never opened her eyes, and as for me, what
comfortable words could I speak? Yet as I saw the soft rise and fall
of her breast, I longed for words, Heaven knows how madly! But none
came, and in silence we drew up at length before a modest doorway in
Old Kensington.

Here Claire summoned all her strength lest her mother should be
frightened. Still keeping her eyes averted, she stepped as bravely
as she could from the cab, and laid her hand upon the door-handle.

I made as if to follow.

"No, no," she said hastily, "leave me to myself--I will write
to-morrow and perhaps see you; but, oh, pray, not to-day!"

Before I could answer she had passed into the house.

Twenty-four hours had passed and left me as they found me, in
torture. Despite my doubt, I swore she should not cast me off; then
knelt and prayed as I had never pra