begin all over again and from the very beginning. Life is an endless
beginning. Had not Nevill's tears assured her that he loved her still, in
spite of what had been done to her? It takes so much to make a man cry.

Mrs. Nevill Tyson may have understood men; it is not so clear that she
knew all about sentimentalists. It seemed as though her beauty being
dead, all that was blind and selfish in her passion for Nevill had died
with it. She was glad to be delivered from the torment of the senses, to
feel that the immortal human soul of her love was free. And as she was
very young and had the heart of a little child, she firmly believed that
her husband's emotions had undergone the same purifying regenerating
process.

As for Tyson, he had not a doubt on the subject. One morning he was
sitting in her room, watching her with a feverish, intermittent devotion.
He noticed her right arm as it hung along the counterpane, and the droop
of the beautiful right hand--the one beautiful thing about her now. He
remembered how he used to tease her about that little white spot on her
wrist, and how she used to laugh and shake down her ruffles or her
bangles to hide it. Even now she had the old trick; she had drawn the
sleeve of her night-gown over it, as she felt his gaze resting on it.
Strange--though she was still sensitive about that tiny blemish, she was
apparently indifferent to the change in her face. He wondered if she
realized how irreparably her beauty was destroyed, and as he wondered he
looked away, lest his eyes should wake that consciousness in her. He had
no idea how long they had been alone together. Time was not measured by
words, for neither had spoken much. He had taken Henley's "Verses" at
haphazard from the bookshelf and was turning over the pages, dipping here
and there, in the fastidious fashion of a man in no mind for any ideas
but his own. Presently he broke out in a voice that throbbed thickly with
emotion--

"Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul--"

He had found the music that matched his mood. He chanted--

"It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul."

Some clumsy movement of his foot shook the bed and jarred her. She drew
in her breath sharply.

"God forgive me!" he cried, "did I hurt you, darling?"

"I don't