"There is no escaping Destiny. After all, whatever the Power that rules this world, we are "Impotent pieces of the game he plays, Upon the checker-board of nights and days," he said, as he placed the letter he had written in his pocket, and scribbled a hasty reply to Dolores' telegram. Arriving at Paris, he found Mrs. Butler in an extremely critical condition. She had been ill since the day following her arrival, and Dolores had scarcely slept or tasted food in her care and anxiety. "Never since my uncle died," she said to Percy, "have I known such loneliness and dependence as I feel now. It seemed to me I must have some one near me, who would share my anxiety and personal interest in the patient. I hope you will forgive me for sending for you: but when I realized that she might die, I could not bear the suspense any longer alone." Percy proved himself a hero in the emergency: he was brother, father, friend and messenger, all in one. He performed all those innumerable outside duties necessitated by illness, and helped sustain Dolores' courage and strength, until at length the patient was pronounced on the highway to recovery. Then there were long health-restoring drives, and pleasant afternoons when Percy read to the convalescent, while Dolores sat near with her sewing or drawing. But by and by there came a day when Percy realized that he must tear himself away, at once. He had been reading aloud, and, among other things, he read a little poem entitled "The Farewell." It seemed particularly suited to his case. 'Tis not the untried soldier new to danger Who fears to enter into active strife. Amidst the roll of drums, the cannons' rattle, He craves adventure, and thinks not of life. But the scarred veteran knows the price of glory, He does not court the conflict or the fray. He has no longing to rehearse that gory And most dramatic act, of war's dark play. He who to love, has always been a stranger, All unafraid may linger in your spell. My heart has known the warfare, and its danger. It craves no repetition--so farewell. He laid down the book. Mrs. Butler was asleep, lulled by his soothing voice. As he sat looking at Dolores, her beauty, her grace, her intellect, and all her countless charms awoke an irritated sense of injury in his heart. What right had she to keep her attractions constantly before him, and yet deny him the right of possession? It was the cup of Tantalus. He rose suddenly. "Dolores," he said, drawing a letter from his pocket, "I wrote this to you before I received your telegram calling me to you. I am going back to London day after to-morrow. I shall call to-morrow to say farewell. But I want you to read this letter, as it will explain to you my abrupt leave-taking better than I can explain it." And then he left her.