are one," said he.

Presently, after a little desultory talk, he took a folded paper from
his pocket and shook it out before me. I recognized the top sheet of the
blotting-pad on which Adrian had written thrice: "God: A Novel: By
Adrian Boldero."

"We had better burn this," said he; and he threw it into the fire.

CHAPTER XII

The slow weeks passed. Fog gave way to long rain and rain to a touch of
frost and timid spring sunshine; and it was only then that Doria emerged
from the Valley of the Shadow. The first time they allowed me to visit
her, I stood for a fraction of a second, almost in search of a human
occupant of the room. Lying in the bed she looked such a pitiful scrap,
all hair and eyes. She smiled and held droopingly out to me the most
fragile thing in hands I have ever seen.

"I'm going to live, after all, they tell me."

"Of course you are," I answered cheerily. "It's the season for things to
find they're going to live. The crocuses and aconite have already made
the discovery."

She sighed. "The garden at Northlands will soon be beautiful. I love it
in the spring. The dancing daffodils--"

"We'll have you down to dance with them," said I.

"It's strange that I want to live," she remarked after a pause. "At
first I longed to die--that was why my recovery was so slow. But
now--odd, isn't it?"

"Life means infinitely more than one's own sorrow, no matter how great
it is," I replied gently.

"Yes," she assented. "I can live now for Adrian's memory."

I suppose most women in Doria's position would have said much the same.
In ordinary circumstances one approves the pious aspiration. If it gives
them temporary comfort, why, in Heaven's name, shouldn't they have it?
But in Doria's case, its utterance gave me a kind of stab in the heart.
By way of reply I patted her poor little wrist sympathetically.

"When will the book be out?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I don't quite know," said I.

"I suppose they're busy printing it."

"Jaffery's in charge," I replied, according to instructions.

"He must get it out at once. The early spring's the best time. It won't
do to wait too long. Will you tell him?"

"I will," said I.

I don't think I have ever loathed a thing so wholly as that confounded
ghost of a book. Naturally it was the dominant thought in the poor
child's mind. She had already worried Barbara about it. It formed the
subject of nearly her first question to me. I foresaw trouble. I could