ne night in summer it chanced that she and Berrand spoke of Fate.
Catherine, dominated by her fixed idea that God would intervene in some
strange and abrupt way to interrupt the activities of Mark, spoke of
Fate as something inevitably ordained, certain as the rising of the sun
or the dropping down of the darkness. Berrand laughed.

"There is no Fate," he said. "There is man, there is woman. Man and
woman make circumstance. We fashion our own lives and the lives of
others."

"And our deaths?" said Catherine.

"We die when we've done enough, when we've done our best or worst, when
we've pushed our energy as far as it will go--that is, if we die what is
called a natural death. But of course now and then some other human
being chooses to think for us, and to think we have lived long enough or
too long. And then----"

He paused with a smile.

"Then----?" said Catherine, leaning slightly forward.

"Then that human being may cut our thread prematurely, and down we go to
death."

Catherine drew in her breath sharply.

"But that again," continued Berrand. "Is man--or woman--not the fantasy
you call Fate?"

"Perhaps Fate can take possession of a man or a woman," Catherine said
slowly and thoughtfully, "govern them, act through them."

"That's a dangerous doctrine. You believe that criminals are
irresponsible then?"

"I don't know," she said. "I suppose there must be an agent. Yes, I
suppose there must."

She spoke as one who is thinking out a problem.

"God," she continued, after a moment of silence, "may choose to use a
man or woman as an agent instead of a disease."

"Oh, well," said Berrand, with his odd, high laugh, "I cannot go with
you on that road of thought, Mrs. Sirrett. I am not afflicted with a
religion. Oh, here's Mark. How have you been getting on, Mr. William
Foster?"

"Grandly," he replied.

His dark eyes were blazing with excitement. Catherine suddenly turned
very cold. She got up and left the room. The two men scarcely noticed
her departure. They plunged into an eager discussion on the book. They
debated it till the night waned and the melancholy breath of dawn stole
in at the open window.

Meanwhile, Catherine, who had gone to bed, lay awake. This summer was so
like last summer. Now, as then, she was sleepless, and heard the distant,
excited voices rising and falling, murmuring on and on hour after hour.
Now, as then, they accompanied activity. Now, as then, the activity was
deadly, harm