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to a bright fire and her morning tea with a sense of unusual security. Peckham always lit her fire early and brought her tea, but that was usually after a bad night, and this had been a good one.

Kitty's arm and shoulder

felt numb and stiff from the recent attack, but mere discomfort was a small thing after acute pain. It was a minute or two before Kitty remembered that the day held a new experience for her. Her nerve rose.unfalteringly to meet it. "Well, Peckham," she said, "is it a nice day? Am I to have nothing to eat just when I'm hungry?"

"That 's Captain Arden's orders, Miss Kitty," said Peckham, firmly, "and I don't need to have starched caps and aprons to carry them out. It 's not many gentlemen would have been wishful to do their nursing themselves, with me by way of being hands and feet to them, when they could have had all the certificated sisters, or whatever they call themselves, and welcome. If I'd been his mother, Captain Arden could n't be more considerate of my feelings, and I can't say a word to thank him, Miss Kitty. I should say 'Ma'am,' for fear of not looking like flint, the way the young ladies do in the hospitals."

"Dear old Peckham!" said Kitty. "I 'll tell him you 're pleased. Is the cook down-stairs giving him a good breakfast?"

"I dare say he 'll be able to eat it," said Peckham, dubiously. "I don't wish to say anything about other people's servants at a moment like this, Miss Kitty; I will only remark that they mean well and leave it at that. The homlette the cook made him last night looked trod on, and the twenny maid wears corsets that pinch her to the bone, and scamps her work according, as well she may. Only one cup of tea, please, Miss Kitty, Captain Arden says, and then to lie still till he comes up to you. You 're not to have no hair-pins in, and stockings you must. I wish I could have gone in with you, my dear lamb, but the captain says he'll take care of you there himself."

"Pooh!" said Kitty, "I sha'n't need any taking care of. Don't make faces at me, Peckham. I know you want to

say something religious to me, and I don't like religion first thing in the morning. Have you brought in the lace cap with the butterflies on and my best lawn nightgown? I'll wear my blue satin dressing-gown with the old lace. collar."

"I ironed the butterfly cap last night, Miss Kitty," said Peckham, severely, "though I must say I think it out of place, butterflies not being what you should call upon in a time like the present."

"I don't know about that, Peckham," said Kitty. "You 're no more likely to suit eternity plain than pretty; rather less, I should think. However, I'll turn up here all right again, don't you fret. I shall just buzz off and then buzz back again, and don't forget I want to paste buckles on the blue slippers."

Peckham produced the blue slippers. "You stick to Captain Arden, whatever happens," Kitty added; "he 'll take care of you. Papa 's no good, poor old thing! I dare say he 'd like to be, but he 's like me; he has expensive tastes. Is that you, Tony? Come in and see what I look like. It's a pity that you are n't going to have more doctors. I shall be rather wasted on only two of you."

Kitty laughed at him from the fireside. She stood there, blue and white, like one of the June butterflies that haunt the down country.

"You have n't seen my post," she said. "Henry has sent me pink roses, and your mother a box of her own flowers, the flame-color cyclamen I love so. It was too sweet of her. And here's a wire from Daphne. 'All love and sympathy. Coming up to-morrow.' course you must stop her; their baby 's nearly due, is n't it? But tell her I was awfully glad she wanted to come; but I'll tell her that myself, of course, later

on.

Of

Your people are most awfully nice, Tony. I'm not surprised-" Kitty broke off suddenly. She was going to say that she was not surprised he had not wanted her to know them, but it might hurt him to remember this now; so she said instead: "I'm not surprised. You 're rather nice yourself." She looked up at him with the old provocative light in her eyes.

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"Kitty laughed at him from the fireside. She stood there, blue and white, like one of the June butterflies that haunt the down country"

Anthony drew her to an arm-chair by the fire.

"I did n't mean you to get dressed so soon," he said gently. "Hilton Laurence may be a little late."

He sat down opposite her, and Kitty drew a cigarette out of a long silver box, lit it, and put it between his lips.

"You'll feel happier smoking," she said kindly. "Men always feel so stupid before things happen; they don't know what to do with their minds. It must be specially boring if they 're clever like you, Tony, because then they expect to say such awfully good things, and no one can say good things at last moments."

"I don't know that I want to say anything good," said Anthony; "but it 's true there are things I 'd like to say to you." He spoke as unemotionally as possible, but the words fought themselves out of him.

He could not let her go without a sign into the dark. She would never hear or speak to him again, because before she had recovered from the operation, when they had left Kitty in his care, he intended to inject sufficient morphia to prevent her coming round. He had the syringe in his pocket now, and as he looked across at her, his mind was registering the weight of the moments which lay between her life and his action.

"You do trust me, Kitty?" he asked her in a low voice "trust me to do what I think best for you?"

Kitty laughed.

"Oh, yes," she said gently; "you'll always do right, poor old thing. Perhaps I might be afraid of what 's right, but I could n't be afraid you would n't do it.”

"You need n't be afraid, Kitty," said Anthony, holding her eyes. "I should do what was wrong without hesitation if I thought it could help you."

"That 's nice of you," said Kitty appreciatively. "I like people to say they don't mind what they do for me; but, still, don't do wrong. It would only make you feel uncomfortable. I shall get on all right. Do you like my buckles?"

Anthony said he did like her buckles. The room seemed full of the clumsi

ness of great moments. There was so much that lay unachieved between them, everything, except the slender thread of their strange tenderness. Anthony felt that he could say no more; his heart was dumb. He took her in his arms and kissed her. He was intensely aware of her life, of the response in her, the supple sweetness of her youth and its surrender; and deeper still he was aware that his own strength, which he held back for the sake of her frailness, was as incomplete to hold or protect her as if he had been a cripple.

Her slight, delicate body dragged at the root of his being. Her eyes smiled into his, sunny, dauntless, challenging eyes, as laughing as an open stream.

"There," she said, "off you go to meet your old wise men. Don't worry about It'll amuse me to think of all the funny things that may be going to happen in another half-hour."

me.

Anthony forced himself to leave her, but his whole being resisted his will. He felt himself one with Kitty; to go from her was like falling over a cliff.

He guessed by the slam of the front door that Hilton Laurence had arrived. He bent his head to meet her lips and left her. It was a cold, black morning. The little, empty room Anthony had arranged as a theater was very hot and light, a large fire burned at red heat, and all the lights were on.

"You'd better have a pick-me-up," Hilton Laurence observed to Anthony after they had made their brief arrangements.

"I don't need one," said Anthony, quietly. "Shall I fetch her?"

Laurence nodded.

"It's a rum job not having a nurse," said the anesthetist, fretfully. "I do dislike innovations in an operation case."

"Oh, well, as long as your tools are handy, and you have a man with a head on to stand by you," said Laurence, cheerfully, "it's all the same in the end. Nurses have a nice look and save a good deal of bother, especially with a nervous patient. But this is n't a nervous patient. She 's had a lot to fight through, poor little woman. What are you going to use?"

"For a long job like this, chloroform is much more satisfactory," said the anesthetist. "However, we can start with a mixture and see how she stands it."

The amazing vision of Kitty broke off their conversation. She had never looked prettier in her life. The long, blue gown, the butterfly cap, the delicately reddened lips, brought out the intensity of her great, dark eyes, alive with spirit and laughter. She wrinkled up her nose as she entered.

"You poor old things! How hot you have made it for yourselves!" she said. "I shall be the only comfortable person in the room."

She shook hands with Laurence and the anesthetist, and with a quick movement sprang sidewise to the table, swinging her feet toward the floor.

"You did n't think I could do that with one arm in a sling, did you?" she asked gaily. "That 's the advantage of being light."

Her breathing came as swiftly and easily as a child's. Anthony stood on one side of her, his hand on her wrist, and the anesthetist on the other.

Her eyes smiled across the table at Hilton Laurence, and then closed. She opened them as the anesthetist, satisfied by his examination, began to give her his last directions in soothing professional tones. Her lips curved in a faint mocking smile. She looked away from him to Anthony; behind the laughter in her eyes was a sudden gleam of reassurance. It was as if her spirit gathered itself up together and called to him not for help, but to give him help. She had never said in words that she loved him, but her eyes said it now, definitely, completely, without wavering. Then they closed finally and did not open again.

"She 's off like a bird," said the anesthetist, with satisfaction.

Hilton Laurence reappeared from behind a screen ready to begin his task. No one spoke for a time.

Then Anthony became aware that there was another presence in the room. It was the same power he had fought the night before.

It filled the room with a strange, preliminary tension before it began to act.

Anthony's outer attention was fixed upon Laurence's needs, but his inner faculties concentrated to encounter this new element. As he did so, he discovered that the whole force of his centered will was useless. Hilton Laurence and his unrivaled skill, the anesthetist and his intent watchfulness, were nothing against this unseen power; they were blown before it like leaves in a wind.

In a moment of terrible despair Anthony felt himself flung back and beaten before the battle had begun. The unseen force had swept them all aside and broken its way into the life of Kitty. There was a moment of suspense, and then as quickly as his despair there shot into Anthony's brain an amazing and sharp relief.

He knew in a flash that this power was not an enemy. It was true it tore to pieces the husk of the beloved life, but mercy was at the root of the destruction. It was tearing her to pieces because the pieces were in the way, life itself was in the way of Kitty; and Anthony became aware that what he thought was his enemy was an immense reinforcement.

Once more he centered his will in the struggle, but he went with the stream now and no longer threw his impotence against it.

He alone was aware of the unseen power, but he saw the others moving at its bidding.

Anthony knew what had happened to Kitty before the eyes of the anesthetist had caught the sudden change. He leaned forward and said quietly,-he heard the words slip out into the room without effort or excitement,—“She's gone."

Hilton Laurence, bending over a severed vein, said:

"Nonsense! my dear chap, keep your head! She's as right as rain." But he looked up sharply as the anesthetist cried:

"By Jove! he 's right! She's gone!" Anthony stood by them curiously unconcerned, while Laurence and the anesthetist tried one after the other their useless remedies. He obeyed their flung directions automatically, threw open the window, drew out the oxygen-cylinder,

and filled it; but there was no flicker of a response.

He had prepared everything. Nothing had been forgotten or overlooked, and all the time they used their ineffectual, puny efforts over Kitty's little broken body, Anthony felt his heart singing within him. They could not set back the clock. Kitty had escaped them. She was no longer there.

Swiftly, simply as the lift of a gull's wing, she had flown, and not for anything in all the world would Anthony have recalled her.

After a time Hilton Laurence turned away from the table.

"I'm awfully sorry, old boy," he said ' defensively. "You see for yourself, don't you; it 's no damned good?"

"I'm sure I don't understand it," said the anesthetist more defensively still. "I took every precaution. I 've never had a case slip like that before. It's most disconcerting. I need n't say, Arden, I'm most terribly sorry."

They stood looking at Anthony like school-boys detected in crime by the head-master. Anthony turned away his face, so that they could not see the triumph in his eyes.

"Of course you did everything," he said reassuringly, "everything you could. I am perfectly satisfied that nothing could have saved her. The lungs were not working properly, and the heart could n't carry on. It was always a risk, but I feel we were justified in trying it."

"More than justified," said Laurence in a relieved tone. "In my opinion it would have been criminal not to have tried. I am most thankful, my dear boy, you can see it all so sanely."

"I think I'll carry her back into her room now," said Anthony, uncertainly. The two men stood aside to let him pass with his light burden.

Peckham was standing by the bed in Kitty's room. He laid her down without speaking, and looked across at Peckham.

"She's all right," he said gently; "more all right now than we could ever have made her, Peckham."

Peckham bowed her head.

"Yes, sir," she murmured, between her sobs. "I felt she was going to be

took. She do look just as she did, poor lamb, when she was a little girl, sir. One could n't, if I may say so, take her naughtiness to heart, and I can't go for to believe the good Lord will be any harder."

Then Peckham left him.

He was alone now with his wife. She was broken like a toy by the hand of science to which he had entrusted her. All his desires were frustrated and his endeavors destroyed. He had not even saved Kitty. Something else had intervened to save her. Anthony was not aware of this power now; the unresponsiveness of death closed down on him.

His eyes fixed themselves on Kitty's, little lace cap made in the shape of butterflies, and this last futility broke his heart.

CHAPTER XXIX

GRIEF slows all the processes of time. To Anthony it might have been weeks that he had been alone with silence in Kitty's empty room, and yet it was only two hours before Henry, calling to inquire for Kitty, became aware of what had taken place.

Henry was aghast to discover that nothing had been done. Anthony, though a doctor, had ignored the urgencies of death.

Peckham, who had made tea twice, but never even knocked at Kitty's door, had received no instructions. Anthony remained for two hours, "apparently," as Henry said to himself, "brooding."

Henry always considered time spent upon thought as "brooding," unless it was accompanied by paper, a writingtable, and ink; then it became thinking.

When Anthony came down-stairs, Henry was surprised to observe no outward change in him. He bore none of the marks of grief, and he was disinclined to speak in a hushed voice.

Henry came forward with an out stretched hand.

"My dear fellow," he said in a low tone, "I am shocked and distressed beyond words."

Of course Henry was not distressed beyond words. Words did very nicely for him. He was, as a matter of fact, intensely relieved.

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