He saw Joyce, bruised and shuddering as a result of Jude's cruelty; he saw her poor little idols dashed to pieces before her eyes; he felt her grief for the dead baby, and when he remembered Jock's account of her taking the small casket to the only spot where she herself was safe, the weak tears rolled down his cold, thin face. He was too exhausted and full of pain to wipe them away. He heard his aunt and sister come out of the house. "Asleep!" whispered the older woman in a glad tone. "I'll go for a walk," Constance added, tip-toeing away. "Have the milk and egg ready when he wakes, auntie. Did you ever see such a day? I feel as if I had just been made, and placed in a world that hadn't been used up by millions of people." They were gone, and Drew sighed relievedly. Presently he opened his eyes, if he had slept he was not conscious of it, and there sat the girl of his dreams near him. "Mrs.--" he faltered, "Mrs. Lauzoon, how good of you to come and see me. I hope you know I would have come to you as soon as I was able?" Joyce had been studying his face--nothing had escaped her: its wanness, the sharp outline, and the tears congealed in the hollows of his cheeks. She pulled her chair nearer, and took his extended hand. "I'm sorry you've been sick," she said simply. Then they smiled at each other. [Illustration: PRESENTLY HE OPENED HIS EYES ... AND THERE SAT THE GIRL OF HIS DREAMS NEAR HIM] It was hard for Drew to readjust his ideas and fit this beautiful woman into the guise of the Magdalene of his late thoughts. Vaguely he saw that whatever she had undergone, she had brought from her experiences new beauty; a new force, and a power to guard her possessions with marvellous calm. She was being made as she went along in life. Her spiritual and mental architecture, so to speak, could not be properly estimated until all was finished. This conclusion chilled Drew's enthusiasm. He would have felt kinder had she been less sure of herself. "You are looking--well, Mrs. Lauzoon." Drew felt the awkwardness of the situation growing. "Please, Mr. Drew, I'm just Joyce again. Perhaps you have not heard?" Her great eyes were still smiling that contented, peaceful smile. "I've heard. Need we talk of it, Joyce?" "Unless you're too weak, we must; now or at some other time. You see I have been waiting to talk to you. I've been saying over and over, 'He'll understand. He'll make me sure that I've done right.'" Drew, for the life of him, could not repress a feeling of repulsion. Joyce noticed this, and leaned back, folding her hands in her lap. Drew saw that her hands were white and smooth. Then she gathered her heavy, red cloak around her, and hid those silent marks of her new refinement. "They call me"--the old, half-childish smile came to the face looking full at Drew--"the worst woman in town. At least, they call me that when they think I won't hear. You know they were always afraid of Mr. Gaston a little. But I hear and it makes me laugh."