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"With all my heart; but let us have no nonsense about this matter-I mean, as to this head. As to the rest, I have done my duty as to a friend. Go on, or stop. It does not concern me. I am free of responsibility." I was vexed with his indecision, and dissatisfied with the rôle I was playing.

"And what do you advise? Now, really." "How childish you are, St. Clair." I shrank from saying: "Give her up. You are unfit for her. Women do not resist you. You were made to please for the hour, not the year." I went on at last quickly: "If you are honestly in love, I have no more to say. Go on, and God help her and you. Perhaps he may, and time may show what a fool I have been."

"Frankly, Owen," he returned, "is it of me or of her you think?"

"Of both."

"Of whom most?"

"Oh, what matters it? I have said enough." "Too much or too little. But do not think I am not thankful, and more thoughtful than you suppose. Let us drop it. I hear that you may go to Charleston about this yellow fever." "Yes; I am asked to go South on a Government commission to study the outbreak they have had. I think I shall go. I saw it once before, and, for various reasons, no one else is quite as well fitted for this not over-pleasant task."

"It is risky." "Very."

"I would n't go. What 's the use?” "It is a simple duty. I should like to go away for a while, and it fits in nicely."

"Darn duty."

The next evening I was at Mrs. Leigh's. They were alone- or rather Miss Alice was -for a time.

"Good evening," I said. "I am very busy, but I have come in just for a little talk, and to say good-by."

"Yes; Mr. St. Clair told us this morning. He thinks it quite needless-your going, I mean." "Needless? He knows nothing at all about it. A man of experience is wanted, and I, unmarried and without ties, am of the men alone fit for it."

"But you have friends, and sometimes those ties are strong."

"Yes, very."

"And is-is the risk great? You have never had the fever. Is there no one who has had it who can go?"

"No one. And I want a change, too. At times life wearies one. You ask why, and I cannot tell. A fresh duty, an absence, winds one up, and we go on again."

"And is your life wearisome? You, who live for others, who are dear to so many, the rich, the poor. Ah, you smile, but you know we are friends, and I manage to learn all about my friends."

A sudden impulse mastered me. "If you were I, would you go?"

"Go!" she exclaimed. "Without a doubt." "And you advise me to go?" "I am only a girl," she replied. "You are my friend."

"Thank you; would one say to a soldier, 'Stay at home'? Yours is a nobler calling. I do not think the world has bonds would hold you back."

"That was kindly said and true. But you overrate me,-I mean as to what you said a moment ago,-and to be overestimated always humiliates me. I shall think of what you have said, and, please God, will come home safe and happier."

"You ought to be happy. It seems strange to me that you are not. You cannot be compassed about with doubts as I am, and see duties you must not accept, or a path you may not tread."

"And are you still tormented ?" "Yes."

"And why not go on?"

"It may appear to you odd, but only one statement of yours really disturbed my resolu

I laughed, as if darning duty mended mat- tion." ters, and we parted.

XXIII.

WHAT I had said was true. I was out of spirits. My work bored me, and, as has been seen, I was peevish and irritable.

"And that?"

"The idea that-that a woman might lose in the work I look to certain of those nameless graces, those tendernesses, which seem to me so much of her honest property."

"I think so, and I have seen you often. We have come to be friends. Now, suppose that

you promise me you will not go on in this matter till I come back. I have much to say about it, and no time in which to say it. I leave to morrow."

“To-morrow?”

giene and carelessness, but that I might like to spend some of his spare cash, and thus excused in his cynical way acts of unusual generosity.

A week before my return came a letter from

"Yes; but one word more. If I never come Mrs. Vincent. back, of course it releases you."

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It releases me? It releases me?"

"Yes. Ah, Mrs. Leigh, good evening," I said, rising. "I came to say good-by."

“Yes; I saw it in the paper, and Mr. St. Clair told us. I suppose it is not very dangerous, and then, if it is, you are a doctor, and it is a matter of business after all. If you see the Temples, remember me to them. But they must have gone, of course."

"When do you return?" said Miss Alice, who had been watching her mother with a grave

face.

"In a month, I hope."

"If you see any nice feather fans," said Mrs. Leigh," do spend a few dollars for me. There are red ones, really charming."

"Charming? What is?" said Mrs. Vincent, entering with her husband. "We missed your call, and Fred and I have been to see you. You leave to-morrow, your note said. Í do not call that charming."

"Oh, it was fans," said Mrs. Leigh. “Dr. North is to bring me some nice feather fans." "Indeed! Bring me nothing but yourself. I am horribly troubled about you. It recalls our talk about fear. Are you ever afraid of disease?"

“I? No-yes. I have always had a slight, a vague dread of this especial malady. I think I said so. I find that physicians often have some such single pet fear."

"Like a soldier's," said Miss Leigh, glancing up at me. "That alone would make you go." Mrs. Vincent glanced at her curiously.

"We won't talk of it," said Vincent. "Write soon and as often as you can."

"Oh, not to me!" said Mrs. Leigh. "Is n't it dangerous?"

"No," I said, laughing. "And now good-by. And this day month, Miss Alice. Good night."

XXIV.

Of my really perilous commission I have nothing to say except that it brought some empty honors, and cost my colleague a sharp attack of the fever. This detained me longer in Charleston, and I got home early in May, tired out with nursing and anxiety. I had heard often from home, but, until a week before my departure, nothing of moment. Clayborne from time to time sent me large sums to be used among the poor of the pest-stricken city. He wrote that of course it was all due to bad hyVOL. XLIV.- 46.

Our friend St. Clair [she wrote] has been at his wicked worst of late. He told Fred last month that he had been gambling in stocks, and was in debt. The speculations, Fred says, were simply absurd. I asked him why he did it, and he replied that it amused him. I cannot make him out of late. I ought to say that Mr. Clayborne at once paid some thousands for him, remarking that it was so comfortable to make a fool of one's self now and then. I said that St. Clair puzzled me. He has shut up his studio, declined recklessly to complete his contracts, and really told Mrs. Leigh, to her disgust, that he could not finish the relief of Alice's face, because work bored him. I do not think he has been near the Leighs since you left. It is too annoying; I shall never try to help anybody again. I am furious at the thought of how right you were. If you bring Mrs. Leigh any fans I will never speak to you any more.

I reopen this letter to tell you an astonishing St. Clair came in on us to-day, piece of news. and would we tell him when you would be at home. Fred said, "Next week." Upon which he four days, and gone he has. The new statue for was so sorry, because he was to sail for Europe in Cleveland has to be cast in Paris. I do not believe it. At first I suspected that Alice had said "No," but this is not so, for, as I said, he has not been near her, and the last time they were here they were on pleasant terms enough. I am dying to ask Alice, but she is hardly the girl to put questions to, and, besides - however, you never appreciated her duly, and I do not want to bore you.

She told me to-day that he had called before he left (his first visit in a month) and that he did nothing but talk about you, which amused me. Fred sends his love, and I am as always,

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judgment, and if I do not know the constitutions of my own children, I should like to know who does or can. Alice is not at all well. She does not know I send for you, but do come soon. course, it is a drawback to have a single man, but then you are a relative, and no longer young. [I was just thirty-seven.] Come soon, etc.

I dropped the note as I stood; picked it up; read it again, and went at once to Mrs. Vincent's, although it was as late as II P. M. Mrs. Vincent had just left her husband. After we had exchanged warm greetings, I said, "Won't you ask Mrs. Vincent to come downstairs? And, Fred, let me see her alone a moment; I want a little advice."

Really," he said, "I ought to charge for these consultations. St. Clair was at it last week. Mrs. Vincent makes a good average for all easy-tongued women by secretiveness quite exasperating."

"After the consultation," I said, "I will consider the fee."

"It ought to be large. What do you get for being rung up at midnight?"

When you are through perhaps you will ask Mrs. Vincent if she has gone to bed."

"She has not," cried Mrs. Vincent, entering. "I heard your voice, and really, I only came down to say how glad and thankful I am. You look tired, but then-it was a fine thing to do. I was proud of you. I could not do it; my friend could, and oh, I liked-liked it well, and so did Fred. He has bored me to death about you, and now you are back, and -and I thank God."

She had my two hands while she spoke, and was a little tearful as she ended, being nothing if not enthusiastic as concerned her friends.

"I cannot weep," said Fred, "but you are very welcome."

"You men are horrid. I shall leave you." No; it is Fred who will go, and you will

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"A consultation, Anne. You will find me in the library."

"And now," said Mrs. Vincent, "this is altogether too delightful. What can I do for you? It is so pleasant to know that I can give you anything. But tell me about Charleston. No, not now; another time. What is it that I can do?" Now that I was into this grave consultation, I began to distrust the doctor and myself. I reflected that I had not enough considered the matter; that, in short, I was a fool. As a result, I put off the fatal moment.

"Presently we will talk," I said; "but first tell me all about everybody—all my friends." "Mr. Clayborne has been as fidgety as a fish on a bank. I think he loves you best of any one on earth better even than Clayborne. What is your trick of capturing people?"

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"Ah, Mrs. Leigh wants your advice about Alice. I am so glad. I advised her to send this very morning. You know I cannot have you myself, but I want every one else to have you, and now I shall be easy, quite easy, about Alice. It is only that she is looking pale."

"But I do not mean to go. You know I am only willing to go in consultation. I do not want practice. I-"

"But this! Oh, this is different."

"Very. And you who got me into this scrape must get me out of it. I do not know how you will do it, but you must manage it, because I do not intend to go."

"You cannot mean that?"

"Yes. Tell Mrs. Leigh that I chanced in, and that I do not take cases outside of my house. Anything you like."

"But it is not true; and after all, it is I who ask you to go, and imagine my making an excuse so ludicrous as that to a woman of the world like Mrs. Leigh. I am quite willing to do anything sane for you; but this! What is your real reason? You do have a reason for most actions."

"Oh, I don't like that hard old woman. Surely one may choose one's patients." "Assuredly. But write and say so. Why come to me?"

"Then I shall fall ill. I simply will not go." "I am sorry; I am more than that— and after I took so much trouble. I am—well, just a little hurt."

"But I would not annoy you for the world." "Well, that is a strong phrase. Why do you?"

"I cannot be Miss Leigh's physician." "Ah, it is Alice then?"

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Yes; it is Miss Leigh. Cannot you understand?"

"I? No. What do you mean?" "Mean! Cannot you see that I love Alice Leigh ?"

"What a fool I am! Oh, you dear, delight ful man! The thing I have dreamed about. And now I see it all. All. And how long has it been? And does she know?"

"I think I am sure not. And one favor I must ask. It is that neither by word nor sign do you betray me."

"And I must not help you?" "No."

“And as to Mrs. Leigh, you are quite too tired to see patients. You are not well. You wished to leave it to me to explain, rather than to have to say abruptly in a note that you cannot come. And that was so nice of you. But you will dine here with Alice to-morrow?" "Indeed, I will not."

"But I must tell Fred?" "No."

"Then good night. I hate you, and I am so glad."

When I went to see Mrs. Vincent it was only with a sense of my own difficulties, and a desire to find a way out, but with no clear idea of how it was to be done. The note had of a sudden set me face to face with a grave fact in my life. I cared deeply for a woman, and had never meant to do so again. At first this selfknowledge humiliated me, and seemed disloyal to an ideal I had loved and lost. I am sure that most deep affection is of gradual growth. I am as sure that the discovery of it as something victorious over memory, prejudices, resolutions is often sudden and surprising. It was so to me. I recoiled from the practical issue of becoming this woman's physician, and in the recoil, and in the swift self-examination which followed, I knew that I loved her.

I walked away but half pleased with myself. It was plain that I had not dealt fairly as to my friend, or perhaps with him, and yet I had meant to do so. I had had, as the Indians say, two hearts about it, or, as we say, had been halfhearted. I laughed as I thought that half a heart had been an organ incompetent to carry on the nutrition either of love or friendship.

At last I reached my home, and sat down with a counseling cigar to think it all over. Emotion had clouded my mind. Now it be came more or less clear to me. St. Clair had seen through me as I had not seen through myself. My cigar went out. I relighted it. It was rank to the taste. I threw it away. It was like some other things in life.

As I rose to go to bed I turned over the let

ters on the table. There was one from the citizens of Charleston; warm thanks for a great service- Alice Leigh would like that. Beneath it was a letter from Paris in St. Clair's wellknown and careless hand. I read it as I stood:

DEAR OWEN: Sorry to have missed you. I am busy here with my new studio and the statue group for Cleveland. I want you to pay the arrears due for rent in my old den in Blank street, and have what is worth keeping stowed somewhere. My remembrances to the Leighs. I left Miss Leigh's rilievo in the front room. Keep it. I am not sure that the eyes are quite correct. The upper lids drop straight, or rather in a gentle curve, from the brows; it gives a look of great purity to the upper part of the face; the peculiarity is quite rare, but is to be seen in Luini's frescos. In fact, the type is medieval. The slight forward droop of the neck is pretty, but not classically perfect as to form. Also, the head of my charming model is rather large for the shoulders, which are a trifle out of proportion to the weight of the head. Write me soon and often. I shall not answer, but I shall intend to do so. Love to the Vincents and to the historic giant. From your friend. VICTOR.

For a moment I stood in thought with the letter in my hand. Then I read it again with care. Had St. Clair deliberately sacrificed himself to me? Was his devotion to Alice Leigh only the expression of his adoration of an unusual type of human beauty? I had before seen brief attacks of this passionate idolatry. Had he become satisfied that marriage was a contract he could not honestly enter upon? That would have been unlike the man. I was exceedingly perplexed.

XXV.

THE next day I called on Clayborne, but found him absent, and toward noon wrote to Mrs. Vincent that I hoped to find her alone. that evening.

The enigma of last night was no clearer in the morning. A hasty note bade me feel sure that she would be at home about ten, and of course she would take care that we should not be interrupted. After that, and until I could talk to Mrs. Vincent, I resolutely put my problem in a corner, and tried to forget it. But despite my control it turned every now and then like a bad child and made faces at me, so that I had an uneasy and very restless day.

I found Mrs. Vincent alone, and quickly saw that this gracious actress was on for a large rôle, but just what was not clear to me. The room had a rather unusual look. The easychairs were not in their places. A crimson mass of velvet heavy with Eastern phantasies of color hung in stately folds over the far end of the grand piano. I knew it well as one of St.

Clair's wildest and most extravagant purchases, the fruitful text of sad sermons by the friend whom the naughty poet called the Rev. Dr. Clayborne. St. Clair had sent it to Mrs. Vincent the night he left-a royal gift. I glanced from it with a full heart to the roses which were everywhere in bowls and tall vases, each, as I well knew, sedulously arranged as the woman's perfect sense of harmony in color dictated. She herself was dressed with unusual splendor, a style not after her ordinary habit, which rather inclined to a certain extravagance as to stuffs, and to great simplicity in outline and forms. Also, she wore two or three jewels, and these especially flashed a warning to me as to there being some surprise in store.

As I entered, the house rang with the triumphant notes of a love-song of Schumann.

"Ah, this is good of you," she cried, rising. "And now that we shall have a nice talk, I am so happy. Did you hear how my piano was rejoicing with me?"

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That was so like her, and I said as much. Yes," she went on, as I looked about me; we are en fête to-night. And you look so grave, Owen." Once in a great while she used my first name, being, despite our extreme and long intimacy, little apt to be familiar in certain ways.

“Yes,” I said; “I am as you say, because I am troubled."

As I spoke, Vincent entered. "Ah, North," he cried, "how welcome you are!" and cast a glance of faint amusement over the room and his wife's costume. "I have been away since morning, or I should have called. I met Clayborne on the steps."

The historian carried a book and a stiff bouquet, which he deposited on the table. "Here," he said, "are the essays, pretty obvious stuff, and some flowers."

Mrs. Vincent thanked him profusely. "So good of you," she said. "What lovely gardenias!" And presently she set one in her belt, saying, "A thousand thanks."

"Why not one?" laughed Vincent. "Why is that noun only plural? It ought to have a definite value-one thank. Then one could grade one's gratitude. Why not thirty-seven, or half a thank on occasions?"

"Quite true, quite true," said Clayborne. "The nouns which are only plural must be rare. Hum" and he fell into a reverie.

"How absurd you are, Fred," remarked his wife.

"Well, the surroundings account for that. Do you entertain Haroun al Raschid to-night, Anne?"

"I entertain myself," she replied, and I detected a little ocular telegraphy meant for Vincent alone. Then Clayborne looked up.

"I can recall no other," he said. "And in French it is the same, and in Arabic. I must look it up."

"Mrs. Leigh told me to-day that you had been to see her," said Mrs. Vincent.

"Yes; we are old acquaintances. You know I was Leigh's executor. That girl must have a pretty fortune. There has been a long minority. Why did not you marry her to St. Clair ?" "I did my best," returned Mrs. Vincent, gaily. "And there is the mama. Now what could be more fitting for you?"

"I! What! Me!" cried Clayborne.

"You might let me mention it to the widow." "Heavens!" he exclaimed, "I believe you. are capable of that, or-or of anything. Let us go and look at the dictionaries, Vincent. Mrs. Leigh! Ye gods of sorrow!"

"Well, think it over," cried Mrs. Vincent, delighted, as the historian rose.

"I leave you to your patient, Mrs. Vincent," said the husband. “Is the case a bad one?

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Prognosis favorable," returned the wife, laughing and striking a few gay notes on the piano. "Diagnosis certain. Am I professionally correct, Dr. North?"

"I never interfere with other folks's cases," I said, and we were alone again.

"And now," she said, "what is it? And do look happier. Fred says I am crazy to-day, and you would not let me tell him. But what is wrong? Surely-'

"Oh, everything is wrong," I said. "I have been a fool, and I have helped to break up St. Clair's life, and I must talk about it to some one."

"Of course. And perhaps I can help you. Only women know women."

"It is not the woman, it is the man, that troubles me. To have won a possible happiness at the cost of a friend, I—I—”

"But perhaps the happiness is not possible," she answered.

"That were no better. I should be doubly punished. Do you think he loved her?"

"I do not know. St. Clair is seemingly so transparent, and then of a sudden you become aware that they are only surface reflections that reach you. There are curious depths in that man's nature. Presently, as Fred says, one is off soundings. I understand you, I think, and I am sorry for you. And now what is it?" "Read this letter," I said.

As she read I saw a faint smile of pleased surprise gather upon her face. She re-read it. Then slowly she folded it up, gave it back to me, and took a perfect white rosebud from the jar near by, and put it on the table beside me. I took it up mechanically.

"It is sweet," she said, "and pure, and there is no canker at the core. The rose is my dear

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