struggle than ever, for those brown eyes that haunted her. She heard again his rebuke for her self-deception, and felt once more the touch of a strong commanding hand, that all unsuspectedly made her long for the things that life might still have to offer, if she cast her decision to the winds and put the thought of self before the impulse of sacrifice.

That evening came the two promised letters and a short business note expressing in rather formal words Doctor Gerald Strowbridge's hopes for her success. Later came a telephone message. It was like a sea-breeze on a murky day to hear the voice at the other end of the wire.

Well,

"Is that you, Muriel? You see I am going to drop the formal 'Miss Worthington. Will and I have been talking about you and we cannot hear of your staying alone in a hotel. (Central, someone is trying to break in on this wire. I am always having to complain. If anyone is listening, they will not hear any good of themselves I can tell them that! It is absolutely outrageous and I shall complain to headquarters.) Hello, are you there, Muriel? Oh, all right! It does Central good to be talked to sometimes. The wire is much clearer now. Well, dear child, Dick is going to call for you to-morrow and you

There are

are to come here, bag and baggage. lots of ways in which we can help each other, and when you have once been to the Governor you could have no protection from interviewers and snap-shot photographers unless you were in a private home. Hello, are you there? You were so silent, I thought that inquisitive party had broken in on us once more.

not say that!

No, no, do

You could not be in the way.

I am a very frank woman and I'll tell you straight if you are. I am quite honest when I say I shall love to have you. One word more. I got in and saw your Jack to-day and we had a long talk. He is a dear boy and of course I believe just as you do. We'll make a good fight for him and if we don't stir up that old stick at the Capitol my name is n't what it is. My dear, I always say what I mean and that's what he is!"

Rather haltingly Muriel expressed her thanks, and the evening proved more endurable than she had expected, as she packed and thought of the sweet rose room that opened to her with such a welcome. Once she stopped and laughed outright. The Doctor's words had come back to her. She pictured Mrs. McDonald with a harp and halo, installed in a marble niche, and she seemed to hear again her cheery laugh. "Ah," said Muriel

to herself, "there may be divers varieties of saints but I certainly prefer her kind. She would surely say of any enshrined saints, as did Cromwell of the silver apostles he took from the cathedral and melted down to be used as coin, 'Let them come down and go about doing good.""

But it was not her friend's cheery voice nor her kindly face that blended with Muriel's dreams as unconsciousness stole over her that night. Again she was haunted by her talk with the Doctor and she seemed to hear him saying: "It may be pity that actuates you. It may be superlative love. I do not ask." No, he had no need to ask. She felt as if he could read her poor, pitiful little secret, and as if her breast was but a glass cage for her throbbing heart, before those eyes that had looked so searchingly and so often into the issues of life and death-eyes that could detect the hidden ill and almost see the flutter of the beating pulses and could read in his fellow beings so much of thought and feeling that remained hidden from the common crowd. She thought that he knew she was entering the most sacred relationship of life without that perfect love that casteth out fear. He would have barred the way and kept her from the sacrilege, but she would not let him. No, she had chosen, and surely she had chosen right. Jack

loved her, trusted her, and he should have all she could give, and what a poor, worthless little gift it was with which she strove to hold back the on-rushing flood, the relentless current of doom!

II

CHAPTER XII

THE

HIS WIFE

HE day was bright and balmy, one of those September days that make one forget the summer is passing. Dew clung to the roses as Muriel walked among them before breakfast, and long, lace-like cobwebs hung from stem to stem upon the grass, jewelled with the myriad glittering drops of moisture. A soft, purple haze veiled the stern mountains over the river, hiding the ugly scars man had made on their rocky face and trailing gauzy veils of mist over the waters.

This was to be her wedding-day and yet the bridegroom had no dream of it, and to her it could bring no joy or sweetness, for the marriage altar was raised in the very shadow of the valley of death. Mrs. McDonald had made the simple arrangements. At that time no license was needed; the chaplain had promised, after a due amount of persuasion had been exercised, to perform the ceremony. Mrs. McDonald and the