for him, the worst treason that man can offer to man. In this case it had ended in hideous catastrophe to an innocent and delightful being, whom he loved. But it was not thereby any the worse; the vileness of it was only made manifest for all to see. This hidden passion in him, as he talked, seemed to lay a fiery hand on Constance, she trembled under it, conscience-stricken. “Does he see the same hateful thing in me?—though he never says a word to hurt me?—though he is so gentle and so courteous?” A tall figure became visible at the end of the street. Connie shut up her writing and ran upstairs to put on her things. When she came down, she found Sorell waiting for her with a furrowed brow. “How is he?” She approached him anxiously. Sorell’s look changed and cleared. Had she put on her white dress, had she made herself a vision of freshness and charm, for the poor boy’s sake? He thought so; and his black eyes kindled. “Better in some ways. He is hanging on your coming. But these are awfully bad times for the nurses—for all of us.” “I may take him some roses?” she said humbly, pointing to a basket she had brought in with her. Sorell smiled assent and took it from her. As they were speeding in a hansom towards the Portland Place region, he gave her an account of the doctors’ latest opinion. It seemed that quite apart from the blood-poisoning, which would heal, the muscles and nerves of the hand were fatally injured. All hope of even a partial use of it was gone. “Luckily he is not a poor man. He has some hundreds a year. But he had a great scheme, after he had got his Oxford degree, of going to the new Leschetizsky school in Vienna for two years, and then of giving concerts in Warsaw and Cracow, in aid of the great Polish museum now being formed at Cracow. You know what a wild enthusiasm he has for Polish history and antiquities. He believes his country will rise again, and it was his passion—his most cherished hope—to give his life and his gift to her. Poor lad!” The tears stood in Connie’s eyes. “But he can still compose?” she urged piteously. Sorell shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, if he has the heart—and the health. I never took much account before of his delicacy. One can see, to look at him, that he’s not robust. But somehow he was always so full of life that one never thought of illness in connection with him. But I had a long talk with one of the doctors last week, who takes rather a gloomy view. A shock like this sometimes lets loose all the germs of mischief in a man’s constitution. And his mother was undoubtedly consumptive. Well, we must do our best.” He sighed. There was silence till they turned into Wimpole Street and were in sight of the nursing home. Then Connie said in a queer, strained voice: “You don’t know that it was partly I who did it.”