mere accidentals of the way of sorrow. And when a door was swung
softly open, she saw no one in the room but Roland. Roland helpless,
unconscious. Roland even then crying out "Denasia! Denasia!"

The physician, Mr. Lanhearne, and his daughter stood by the fireside,
and when Denasia entered Ada went rapidly to her side.

"We are glad you have come," she said kindly. "You see how ill Mr.
Tresham is. You are his countrywoman--his friend, I think?"

"I--am--his--wife."

She said the words with a pathetic pride, and Ada wondered why they
hurt her so terribly. Like four swords they pierced her heart and cut
away from it hope and happiness. She went back to her father's side,
and leaned her head on his shoulder, and felt like one holding despair
at bay. And oh, how grateful to her was the secret silence of the
night! Then she wept as a little child weeps who has lost its way. By
her anguish and her sense of loss for ever she was taught that Roland
had become nearer and dearer than she had ever suspected. And the
knowledge was a revelation of sorrow. Her delicate conscience shivered
in the shadow of a possible wrong and the bitterness of the
might-have-been she was to fight without ceasing.

She felt no anger toward Denasia, however. Denasia was only the hidden
rock on which her frail, unknown love-bark had struck and gone down.
And she was constrained to admit that, so far as she herself was
concerned, Roland was innocent. She had, indeed, often felt hurt at
his restraint and want of response. In her pure, simple heart she had
called it pride, shyness, indifference; but she understood now that
this poor, weak soul had at least not lacked honour.

So that there was in this apparently peaceful, comfortable home two
vital conflicts going on: the struggle of a noble soul to slay love,
the struggle of unpitying death to slay life. About the ninth day
Roland, though weak, had some favourable symptoms, and there were good
hopes of his recovery. He talked with Denasia at intervals, and
assured of her forgiveness and love, slept peacefully with his hand in
his wife's hand.

A few days later, however, he appeared to be much depressed. His dark,
sunken eyes gazed wistfully at Mr. Lanhearne, and he asked to be alone
with him for a little while. "I am going to die," he said, with a face
full of vague, melancholy fear. The look was so childlike, so like
that of an infant soul afraid of some perilous path, that Mr.
Lanhearne could no