At first she could see nothing, for the glass was cloudy. She noted, with a pang of disgust, that the table-cover was made of brown alpaca, fringed all around by the fabric itself, cut unskilfully into shreds with the scissors. As she looked, the glass slowly cleared. The small object was heart-shaped and made of wax in some dull colour half-way between red and brown. At length she saw that it was broken and the pieces had been laid together, carefully. Unless she had looked very closely she would not have seen that it was broken. Suddenly she felt a Presence in the room, and looked up quickly, with terror clutching at her inmost soul. A tall, grey figure, mysteriously shrouded, stood motionless beside her. Only the eyes were unveiled and visible amid the misty folds of the fabric. The eyes held her strangely. They were deep and dark and burning with secret fires. Hunger and longing were in their depths, and yet there was a certain exaltation, as of hope persisting against the knowledge of defeat. Rosemary's terror gradually vanished. She felt an all-pervading calmness, a sense of acceptance, of fulfilment. [Sidenote: Not of One's Own Choice] For a long time she stood there, transfixed by the eyes that never for an instant wavered from hers. They searched her inmost soul; they saw all things past and to come. They questioned her, challenged her, urged something upon her, and yet she was not afraid. At last, with dry lips, she spoke. "Who are you?" She did not recognise the sound of her own voice. "The Lord of Life," the figure answered, in low, deep tones that vibrated through the empty rooms like the swept strings of a harp. "And this is--?" "The House of the Broken Heart. I live here." "Why?" she asked. "Not of my own choice. Why have you come?" "Not of my own choice," she repeated, dully. "I came because I had to." "They all do. That is why I myself am here." "Do--do many come?" "Yes." Rosemary looked back over her shoulder, then lifted her eyes to those of the grey figure. "Then it is strange," she said, "that I am here alone." "You are not alone. These rooms are full, but no one sees another in the House of the Broken Heart. Each one is absorbed in his own grief to the exclusion of all else. Only I may see them, with bowed heads, pacing to and fro. [Sidenote: Selfish Grief] "On the stairway," he went on, "is a young mother who has lost her child. She goes up and down endlessly, thinking first she hears it crying for her in the room above, and then in the room below. Her husband sits at the foot of the stairs with his face hidden in his hands, but she has no thought for him. He has lost wife and child too." "Poor man!" said Rosemary, softly. "Poor woman!"