She told this to Blake, one day. Side by side, they had been sitting by the window, gazing out into a sleet-swept street where horses slipped and slid, and hurrying foot-passengers passed with heads buried in collars, or furs. He had said but little in reply--merely that there are things in this world that we do not know, and that happiness sometimes come whence we least expect it. He did not say these things with any great degree of confidence. In his own life, there had been but little save longing unsatisfied, prayers ungranted. But she took from it comfort--even though there seemed in it so pitifully little from which comfort might be derived. Perhaps it was the way in which he said it; or perhaps it was because it was he who said it. However, winter at length dragged out its weary life to its weary end. Spring came, and with it the soft green of the new born grass, and the lighter shoots of crocus, and lily, and the buds of the trees. Spring grew; and the stolid phalanx of city homes began to don their summer armor of boards, and blinds and shaded windows. And then the Larchmont place was opened. John Schuyler had sent to Kathryn the deed of it; the one request that he had made was that she continue to live there--that she take Muriel there. During all this time no word of him had come to her. Blake had heard. But no word had he said to Kathryn, because of the things that he had heard. A man of the breadth of acquaintance, of the breadth of interests, that was John Schuyler's may not fall to desuetude unwatchful. And Blake heard, at clubs, at theatres, wherever men congregate, of Schuyler, and of the life that was his. And he, as little as they, could explain. Schuyler was drinking, they told him--drinking hard. The woman? Was she still in New York? Yes; she had been seen at the opera; she had been seen driving in the Mall. A damnable strange case, the whole thing. Grewsome! And, save Blake, they would wash the taste of it all from their mouths with liquor. Devilishly good fellow, Schuyler. Brainy, too. He would have been one of the big men of the country, if it hadn't been for this. A chance to save him? They shook their heads, and smiled, grimly. You know how it is, yourself. When a man gets into the hands of a woman like that, what can you do? Say anything against her, and you have to fight him. Tell him he's a fool and he tells you to mind your own business. Try to reason with him, then? If the man had any reason left in him, there would be no occasion to reason. It's hard, true. But your hands are tied. It's just, "Good-bye," and a prayer for the next man.... So they reasoned. And could Blake say that they were wrong? ... Could you? [Illustration] CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO. IN THE GARDEN. Kathryn stood beside the blossom-laden arbor, culling fragrant tender blossoms from the wealth before her. Beside her, Muriel, little skirt upheld, received them. "Mother, dear," said the child, at length. "Yes, honey?"