must have seen how I made my life. I forced it to match his, to try to keep him; and I never kept him.

Some

"I can't do it any more now. thing has broken in me. He always got out of every difficulty, and left me in it to stand the racket. You see, if you think of yourself first, you can always escape. The danger is there just the same, but somebody else gets caught in it. He's never had a failure; they were all mine. But he 'll fail now, thank God!"

"What do you mean, Julia," Joy cried- "he 'll fail now? Is there anything worse that 's going to happen?" Julia's gray eyes turned as bright as steel.

"Yes," she said. "Why do you suppose I had you here? To comfort me? There is no comfort for wrongs like mine. I did n't mean you to know all this stuff; I only meant Owen to get to care for you-and fail.

"I love you, and I risked you for that. I want him to know just for once what it is to be ashamed of your own heart. That's what he 's made women. I knew you were safe; you've always cared for Nick, so I played you. Don't blame me too much, Joy! I've been turning to stone for years, and stones do cruel things. Only help me to bring it off. Don't let him know you know. He'll be fool enough to try to make love to you. Let him know then!"

"Oh, no! no, Julia!" Joy cried out suddenly. "I think something will happen to me if he tells me that." There was an ominous note in Joy's voice that frightened Julia for a moment; Joy had cried out as if she had gone one step beyond what she could bear. It was like the cry of some one sinking suddenly out of

their depth. their depth. Julia looked at Joy in a puzzled way.

"Don't take it too hard," she said soothingly. "The worst of everything is over now. You can't go on feeling, you know, beyond a certain point."

"It is n't-it can't be over yet," whispered Joy. "Julia dearest, it's all been so awful for you, I can't take it in yet. I'm trying to, but I can't. It only hurts me without letting me see. I don't suppose I can ever understand how awful it has been for you, but it could be worse, it could be worse, if you make Owen worse. O Julia, we can't do that! Perhaps I have already, because I did n't know; but I do know now, and you love him. You don't want Owen to do another bad thing?"

"I hate him," said Julia in a suffocated voice. "He's the father of my children, and I hate him! If I could make him suffer for a moment a tenth of what I have suffered, I 'd die happy."

"But that's only because you love him," Joy persisted. "You would n't want to drag him into being like you, you would n't feel so tortured if you were n't part of him. You only want him different. That's what is so awful for you, his not being different. It's because he is n't, because he can't be, that you 're so unhappy. It would only make you unhappier if he was cruel to me, too."

"No, no!" protested Julia. "I want him to see you don't understandI'm ashamed, Joy. I've loved him, wanted his worthless love, cried for it, hungered for it, nearly died because I could n't get it! That's all fed his vanity. I want to see him starved as I've been starved!"

"You judge me, Joy," Julia asked with trembling lips-"you judge me, and not Owen?"

"Oh, but I don't," said Joy; "I don't judge either of you at all. I love you both, and I'm unhappy for you both." "O Joy, I should n't have made you unhappy!" whispered Julia, and as she spoke something hard and heavy in her melted, and she began to cry. Joy took her in her arms then and held her there as if she were her child. Her pity had its way now; it sank down and down into Julia's very being. The broken phrases of Julia's hopeless grief poured out of her like some hard obstacles that suddenly give way under a flood of waters. She was escaping from what her heart had held; her bitterness receded from her, the cruelty that had risen up out of the wreck of her love, the jealous misdirection of her outraged pride yielded, and every word of her heart's bitterness as it fell from her entered into Joy's heart like a sword.

This was what love could mean: the sound which had set Joy's spirit upon those strange sweet tides, the blessed sense of unity when she and Owen were alone and near, could they deceive? These disconnected spirits, this restless agony, mistrust and broken faith, were they the end of love?

But in her heart love had no end; the cries of Julia's pain, the truth of Owen's selfishness, did nothing to shake her own amazing tenderness. She only loved them more, because she saw quite plainly there was more need for love.

There was a darkness all about her, a jangling darkness, as if she had been caught in a tunnel where there was

was outside of her, it was a wall before her eyes, it had not touched her heart. It was nearly morning when Julia said suddenly, after a long silence:

"Do what you like, then, Joy. Let him off if you like. I see what I wanted would n't do any good. I don't see how you've made me see it. I'm not sorry for him; why should I be? But I suppose you are right, since love is out of the question; it won't do any particular good simply to hate. It would only be like falling off the house to die and breaking my leg once again. I won't even do that any more. I 'll settle down and look after my twins."

Julia laughed a little hopeless, amused laugh, kissed Joy, and fell asleep.

The house was quite dark and still, and Joy was all alone in it. Nina had gone back to her room and slept. Owen slept. There was no one to share her vigil.

She crept back to her room and to the open window again. The air blew cool and fresh against her forehead. She remembered death. She had been so terrified of it for Rosemary; the thought of it had ridden her for months like a nightmare, and when it came, it was sweet and delivering.

She had seen love made terrible tonight, but perhaps love, too, was innocent of the terrors that surrounded it. tenderness?

What terror could there be in

If she ran away from it and tried to escape it, would she even know that it could prove, like death, a great alternative to disaster? Her first impulse had been to go away instantly, not to see Owen again, or risk having to judge him. She would not judge him now, but she might have to stay. She must

not let him think she had a horror of him-a horror so great that she had to run away, shaking the dust off her feet.

She must n't do that; she must stay until he saw that though she knew, she cared, and though she cared, she could n't ever give him what it was wrong for them to want.

She would go, then, but she could not go before. She leaned her head low on her hands and prayed.

She did not think of herself any more. Until the sun rose out of a bank of cloud and flooded the garden with the surprise of day, she thought without ceasing of Julia, of Owen, and of Nina. She drove her tired heart against their pain like an exhausted soldier pressing on under fire toward an invisible goal.

XV

It was an uncomfortable day. The rain swept round the house in sheets, the wind thundered in the void of the sky, descending to tear down the last leaves in a savage spite, and to crash against the doors and windows with an intermittent pummeling, like the roll of heavy seas against a ship.

Owen sat in a large leather armchair before the fire. He had the "Times" spread open on his knees, but he was not reading it, and a cigarette in his mouth, which he had allowed to go out. He was in a very curious state of mind. Joy had not come down to breakfast that morning, nor was she in the nursery afterward. His whole being needed her. He felt like a castaway on a desert island hunting for a well. Unless he could find it, he was lost. Even without finding it he might be lost, but his immediate need was greater than his fear of subsequent dangers. His thirst consumed him.

Owen was no deliberate sinner; he was fastidious and light-hearted. Consequences never appalled him until they happened, and privilege had usually exempted him from their happening. If it is hard for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven, it is sometimes as hard for him to go into the kingdom of hell. He does not go very much farther than the portal. The devil does the rest.

Owen was quite sure that he would never do Joy any harm. She did not belong either to the type or to the class of women to whom harm comes. He did not even want to change that look of steady confidence in her eyes. He was like a child who clamors that he will not destroy his Sunday toy; only when it is put into his hands his carelessness destroys it.

Owen vowed to himself that he would not be careless this time. No woman had ever touched his heart as deeply as Joy had touched it. She believed in him with an unruffled steadiness; other women had believed in him, but they had n't made him believe in himself. Since he had known Joy, Owen felt sure that he was a better man. He was not even very angry with Nina for suddenly disappearing without a word, leaving him all his letters to answer. Many men would have dismissed a secretary for less.

Of course Owen was, as a matter of fact, deeply thankful that Nina had gone; but he had tricked so many people that at a pinch he could trick himself. He told himself now that Nina's sudden departure was very inconvenient.

He was not going to make love to Joy. All yesterday he had resisted the temptation; it was only when Joy herself was not there that he failed to

resist it. He told himself that this temptation which he intended to resist was really Julia's responsibility. She should n't have put the girl in his way. She was perfectly safe, of of course, but she should n't have been put there.

Better men than he would have been tempted. He saw where these better men would have fallen, and he rose superior to them, but without much conviction. Better men seldom came into his field of vision except when he was excusing himself. Well, thank God, Nina was out of the house!

In some vague, inexplicable way Owen was shocked that Nina should know Joy. He really blamed himself sharply for this unfortunate coincidence. He was not shocked that Joy should know himself.

A knock came at the door, and Joy entered. He sprang to his feet to welcome her. She had never come to his room like this before; it was as if some wonderful answering need in her had drawn her to him, one of those inexplicable miracles of dawning love, speechless, obscure, and wise.

"I am going away," she said in a very low voice, "this afternoon. I wanted to see you first, Owen."

And then he saw her face. She had been a child yesterday, and now the child was dead. Her grave, white face had no mark in it left of her youth. Her cheeks still kept their sweet, round curves, but her eyes had lost their happy light, the young, half-opened lips were closed by sharp control. She stood there, very gentle and quiet, quite near him, and in her eyes there was neither reproach nor faltering; but he saw in a moment that she knew.

He gave a long, inarticulate sound of pain and rage. Only Julia could

have dealt him this cruel stroke. She had waited until every nerve and thought of his heart were set upon this creature of his dreams, and then with a quick, ruthless touch she had set them apart forever. A feeling as hot and hard as murder rose up and shook him; but Owen could n't get rid of his pain by anger. As he met Joy's eyes, murder felt inadequate.

If she had only blamed him, ranged herself on the side of his enemies, she would at least have roused his self-pity, and not forced him to feel that he had done a worse wrong than any he had suffered. But she did n't blame him; she only looked at him as if she herself was to blame. He knew as he met her diffident, appealing eyes that the avenging angel has not a sword.

"Joy," he said huskily, "they 've told you I 'm a blackguard, have n't they? I suppose you must believe them, and if you don't believe them, I'll have to tell you myself. You can believe me?"

She did not seem to see that this was almost like exculpating himself. He hesitated for a moment, and then he poured out to her the whole shifting, evasive history of his hunts and captures. There had been so much personal disappointment mixed up with them! So many women had failed him! They had even tried to deceive him into believing them less exacting and fatiguing than they were. There is always a great deal to be said for a man who has been too popular with women. Owen said it almost better than any one else. Women had been selfish with him; they had tried to pin him down. They had taken his charming manner too seriously. Judged by this standard of a man of the world, he had n't really done anything particu

larly wrong. He had been a victim of circumstances. The circumstances had been rather too much alike, and so, it must be confessed, had the victim. Still, he had not meant any harm.

Then he swerved suddenly and took another line altogether a line that would appeal to Joy more. He threw over the standard of a man of the world, and admitted himself the chief of sinners. He could count on Joy's forgiving crimes, and while he insisted on his guilt, he adroitly showed her that his humility was more striking still; but he found that the élan of these two explanations mysteriously failed him. It was as if he became aware that Joy did not attach any importance to his presentation of his sins, nor perhaps even to the sins themselves. What really had brought that look of death into her eyes was what his sins had made of him, a man she could not wholly trust.

"Owen," she said at last, as if he had not spoken, "you 'll be kind, won't you, to Nina?"

"I will not dismiss her, if that is what you mean."

Joy thanked him humbly.

"There's another thing," she said, "I don't know if I ought to tell you, but perhaps you could n't find out if I did n't. Julia loves you. She won't ever say it; but if you know it, know it in your heart, it might make things easier, might n't it?"

"Loves me," he cried, "and she 's told you things that have hurt you like this! O Joy! Joy! do you call that love?"

Joy moved a little restively; she did n't like Owen's accusing Julia.

"It was my fault," she said quickly; "I made her. I asked her. If I'm hurt, as you say, it's because I've been wicked. I did n't know it was wicked; it did n't seem like wickedness. seemed so right to love.

It That's why I came to say good-by. No, no, don't say anything, Owen! If you could just not say anything, I only want you to know, that some of it need n't be wicked, not if we don't say anything, and it makes us kind."

Her eyes pleaded with him. They might have won him, but she did not remember or even know the dreadful power of her beauty. She appealed

"I've found out such a lot of things lately, and I 've done wrong. I have made things hard for everybody. I have been very selfish and careless. I did n't know-I did n't know anything about what I was doing. But I do know now. It would help me very much, Owen, if you were nice to Nina."

Owen acted with magnanimity. He still believed that Julia had told her. He said, after a moment's pause:

had n't much spirit; but she appealed unconsciously to his senses, and he had always let his senses have the last word in every struggle.

"O Joy," he cried, "do you mean you love me? Do you mean it as I mean it? If you do, what does all this stuff in the past matter? What does anything matter? If I'd known you before, if I'd met you in time, I swear I'd never have thought of any one but you. My dear! my dear!"

"Don't say it!" she cried under her