er own hour?
Weakness--weakness again! Every delay would only increase the phantom
terror. Now, _now_--with her head on his breast!

She turned toward him and began to speak impulsively.

"I can't show you the letter, because it's not--not my secret----"

"Ah?" he murmured, perceptibly relieved.

"It's from some one--unlucky--whom I've known about...."

"And whose troubles have been troubling you? But can't we help?"

She shone on him through gleaming lashes. "Some one poor and ill--who
needs money, I mean----" She tried to laugh away her tears. "And I
haven't any! That's _my_ trouble!"

"Foolish child! And to beg you are ashamed? And so you're letting your
tears cool Mr. Langhope's soup?" He had her in his arms now, his kisses
drying her cheek; and she turned her head so that their lips met in a
long pressure.

"Will a hundred dollars do?" he asked with a smile as he released her.

_A hundred dollars!_ No--she was almost sure they would not. But she
tried to shape a murmur of gratitude. "Thank you--thank you! I hated to
ask...."

"I'll write the cheque at once."

"No--no," she protested, "there's no hurry."

But he went back to his room, and she turned again to the toilet-table.
Her face was painful to look at still--but a light was breaking through
its fear. She felt the touch of a narcotic in her veins. How calm and
peaceful the room was--and how delicious to think that her life would go
on in it, safely and peacefully, in the old familiar way!

As she swept up her hair, passing the comb through it, and flinging it
dexterously over her lifted wrist, she heard Amherst cross the floor
behind her, and pause to lay something on her writing-table.

"Thank you," she murmured again, lowering her head as he passed.

When the door had closed on him she thrust the last pin into her hair,
dashed some drops of Cologne on her face, and went over to the
writing-table. As she picked up the cheque she saw it was for three
hundred dollars.

XXXIV

ONCE or twice, in the days that followed, Justine found herself thinking
that she had never known happiness before. The old state of secure
well-being seemed now like a dreamless sleep; but this new bliss, on its
sharp pinnacle ringed with fire--this thrilling conscious joy, daily
and hourly snatched from fear--this was living, not sleeping!

Wyant acknowledged her gift with profuse, almost servile thanks. She had
sent it without a word--saying to herself that