Quentin at last burst all bonds, and, finding himself out of the doctor's hands, determined to make a last desperate appeal to Dorothy Garrison. If that appeal failed, he would then give up the struggle; he would at least end the suspense. He knew how difficult it would be to obtain an audience with her, but he went ahead with the confidence of the drowning man, the boldness of the man who is wounded to the death but does not know it. It was the Wednesday just one week before the wedding that saw the pale-faced, tall and somewhat unsteady American deliberately leave his cab and stride manfully up the steps of a certain mansion in the Avenue Louise. Miss Garrison was “not at home,” and her mother was “not at home.” So said the obsequious footman. “Take my card to Miss Garrison,” said Quentin, coolly. The man looked bewildered and was protesting that his young mistress was not in the house when the lady herself appeared at the top of the broad stairway. Phil stood in the center of the hall watching her as she slowly descended the steps. At the bottom of the steps she paused. Neither spoke, neither smiled, for the crisis was upon them. If he were pale from the loss of blood, she was white with the aches from a fever-consumed heart. “Why have you come?” she asked, at last, her voice so low that the words scarcely reached his ears. “Dorothy,” was all he said. “You knew what I must say to you before you entered the door. Will you let me tell you how deeply I have grieved over your misfortune? Are you quite wise in coming out before you have the strength? You are so pale, so weak. Won't you go back to your--to your hotel and save yourself all the pain that will come to you here?” There was pity in her eyes, entreaty in her voice, and he was enveloped in the tender warmth of her sincerity. Never had she seemed so near as now, and yet never so far away. “Dorothy, you must know what manner of love it is that brings me to plead for the smallest crumb of what has been once refused. I come simply, in all humility, with outstretched hands to ask your love.” He drew nearer, and she did not retreat. “Oh, it is so useless--so hopeless, Phil,” she said, softly. “Why will you persist? I cannot grant even the crumb.” “I love you, Dorothy,” he cried passionately. “Oh! Phil; you must understand that I can give you nothing--absolutely nothing. For God's sake--for my sake, for the sake of that dear friendship we own together, go away and forget--forget everything,” she said, piteously. A half-hour later he slowly descended the steps, staggering like a man sick unto death. She sat where he left her, her wide, dry eyes seeing nothing, her ears hearing nothing but the words his love had forced her to utter. These words: