, and whether the hat could be recovered.

Then she bent over the stretcher.

"Boy dear," she whispered, in tones of ineffable tenderness; "this is
where they have laid you; but _I_ will take you away."

She put her arms beneath the body; then, with an almost superhuman
effort, lifted it, and gathered it to her. It felt limp and broken.
The head fell heavily against her breast. The blood and salt-water
soaked through her thin muslin blouse. But she held him, and would not
let him go. "I will take him away," she whispered; "I will take him
away."

She knew she was losing her reason, but she had known that, ever since
she first looked down from the top of the cliff, and saw the broken
wings floating on the sea. Now, with her Boy in her arms, her one idea
was to get away from the Professor; away from the coast-guardsmen; away
from the crowd.

Turning her back upon the beach, she staggered along the breakwater,
toward the open sea.

"I will take him away," she repeated; "I will take him away."

Then her foot slipped. She still held the Boy, but she felt herself
falling.

She closed her eyes.

She never knew which she struck first, the stone breakwater, or the
sea----

THE SEVENTH DAY

THE STONE IS ROLLED AWAY

When Christobel recovered consciousness and opened her eyes, she found
herself in bed, in her own room, at home.

Martha bent over her.

The morning light entered dimly, through closed curtains.

In dumb anguish of mind, she looked up into Martha's grim old face.

"Tell me where you have laid him," she said, "and I will take him away."

Martha snorted.

"I've laid your tea-tray on the table beside your bed, Miss," she said;
"and when you 'ave finished with it, _I_ will take it away."

Whereupon, Martha lumbered to the large bow-window, drew back all the
curtains with a vigorous clatter of brass rings, and let in a blaze of
morning sunshine.

Christobel lay quite still, trying to collect her thoughts.

One of her pillows was clasped tightly in her arms.

She lifted her left hand, and looked at it.

No ring encircled the third finger.

"Martha," she called, softly.

Martha loomed large at the side of the bed.

"What is to-day?"

"Wednesday, Miss," replied Martha, too much surprised to be
contemptuous.

"Martha--where is Mr. Chelsea?"

"Lord only knows," said Martha, tragically.

"Martha--is he--living?"

"Living?" repeated Martha, deliberately. Then she smiled, her