When at last she rose to leave him he said slowly, "I cannot understand it yet--I must have time--but it comforts me to know that while so much is lost, you are still here, and you are still the same." She fought back the tears that were blinding her. "I am always the same--remember that--and I am here when you want me. Good-night, dear Francis." "Good-night, dear friend." CHAPTER XXIII CONTENT "The dead are glad in heaven, the living 'tis who weep."--K. Y. HINKSON. Philippa followed Isabella down-stairs like one walking in her sleep, without feeling, without consciousness, save of a dreadful numbness which seemed to envelop her, body and heart alike. She walked to the door and opened it, and then she became aware that her companion was speaking. The words came as if from a great distance through a mighty void. "He will need you," Isabella was saying through her tears. "Go back to him. He must not feel he is alone. See if your love can help him----" Then her sobs choked her, and she walked quickly away into the gathering darkness. The girl returned to the hall and stood in front of the hearth. She wanted to think and lacked the power to do so. There was something she must do--what was it? A servant came and handed her a letter as she stood there, and she took it mechanically without glancing at it. Her fingers tore it open automatically, and then she looked--and something burst the icy band which froze her faculties and a low cry broke from her: "Oh no! not now--not now." It was a thin square envelope bearing an Italian stamp--a reply from her friend to say that the villa should be prepared for her. It had come--now--when her dream was shattered, and the man she loved--for whom she had planned the journey to the Magical Island--knew her only as Jim's girl. But as sense and feeling returned to her in a burning flood of pain they brought also a courage as of despair--a courage and a determination to cling with all her strength to what had been hers--when--such a little time ago. Was her love of no avail? It was at least a shelter and a refuge for him in his loneliness and grief. All jealousy of Phil had vanished now--there could be no barrier between them now he knew the truth. He was hers to shield and comfort--surely he would need her now more than ever before. Then she remembered what she had wished to do, and crossing to the writing-table she penned a short note to the doctor. "He has remembered; I think you had better come." She signed it and fastened the envelope; her brain was working clearly now. She rang the bell and ordered the note to be taken at once, and asked for some soup and wine.