y longer even live in the house
with her, and all her grief of the day seemed less than this thought.
Then she read it again. He knew all? Who could have told him? Her Uncle
Francis? No, he did not himself know that Mirko was dead until she had
told him. This was a mystery, but it was unimportant. Her numb brain
could not grasp it yet. The main thing was that he was very angry with
her for her deception of him: that, perhaps, was what was causing him
finally to part from her. How strange it was that she was always
punished for keeping her word and acting up to her principles! She did
not think this bitterly, only with utter hopelessness. There was no use
in her trying any longer; happiness was evidently not meant for her. She
must just accept things--and life, or death, as it came. But how hard
men were--she could never be so stern to any one for such a little
fault, for _any_ fault--stern and unforgiving as that strange God who
wrote the Commandments.

And then she felt her cheeks suddenly burn, and yet she shivered; and
when her maid came to her, presently, she saw that her mistress was not
only deeply grieved, but ill, too. So she put her quickly to bed, and
then went down to see Mr. Markrute.

"I think we must have a doctor, monsieur," she said. "_Miladi_ is not at
all well."

And Francis Markrute, deeply distressed, telephoned at once for his
physician.

His betrothed had gone back to the country after luncheon, so he could
not even have the consolation of her sympathy, and where Tristram was he
did not know.

For the four following days Zara lay in her bed, seriously ill. She had
caught a touch of influenza the eminent physician said, and had
evidently had a most severe shock as well. But she was naturally so
splendidly healthy that, in spite of grief and hopelessness, the
following Thursday she was able to get up again. Francis Markrute
thought her illness had been merciful in a way because the funeral had
all been got over while she was confined to her room. Zara had accepted
everything without protest. She had not desired even to see Mirko once
more. She had no morbid fancies; it was his soul she loved and
remembered, not the poor little suffering body.

It came to her as a comfort that her uncle and Mimo had met and shaken
hands in forgiveness, and now poor Mimo was coming to say good-bye to
her that afternoon.

He was leaving England at once, and would return to his own country and
his people. In hi