of the night it was upon him again,
gripping him with a pain around the heart. The most unexpected
happenings would bring remembrances of her. The appealing gaze of an
Irish newsboy, or a hand-organ grinding out the "Ah! che la morte,"
which brought back the half-lighted piano and Katrine's singing in the
twilight; the dreariest; most sordid details of existence reminded him,
who needed no reminding, of the time that he himself had decreed should
be no more.

For three days he endured Bar Harbor before he fled to the Canadian
woods with no companion save a guide. He gave his address to none save
his mother, and for six weeks tramped until his body ached for rest;
rowed the sombre lakes for exhaustion and peace of mind, cursing the
fact that he was a Ravenel, and knowing full well that his conduct was
both foolish and illogical.

At the first stop for letters he found one from his mother, which
disturbed him more than any letter of hers had ever done before. She
wrote:

DEAREST LADDY,--I am writing in much haste and some perturbation of
mind for your advice. Last night, at the Desmonds', Nick van
Rensselaer came to me after dinner for a chat. I knew he had
something upon his mind when he wasted his time talking to a woman.

And what do you think it was? The most astounding, impossible,
quixotic, unlanguageable thing in the world! He wants to send
Katrine Dulany abroad to study. He wants it to be done in my name,
however, so that it will in nowise compromise her, and wishes to
have all the credit of the kindness given to me. He says he does
not want to be known in the matter at all; that the girl can regard
the money as a loan, and return it to him if she becomes a great
singer, of which resulting he seems to have no doubt.

You see the part I shall be forced to take in the affair. I have
asked him for a few days to consider the proposition, and am
writing you for advice.

When are you coming? Every one is asking about you.

Lovingly always,
MOTHER.

Lying on his back watching the crooked blue spots of the sky through the
tree-tops of a Canadian forest, Francis read this letter over and over,
and as he did so it seemed strange to him that he had not thought to
help Katrine in this way himself. If she ever found out that he had done
so she would probably never forgive him, but there were ways, he
reasoned, to arrange it so