"Why? Because, Mrs. Alexander, this is no time to mince words. If you know where your husband is, for God's sake, get word to him to come back--every minute is precious. He may be ill,--Heaven knows he had enough to make him so; my wife knows the strain I've been through; she says she wonders I'm alive,--but he can't look after his health now. If he's on top of ground, he's got to _come_. I've put every cent I own into this business. I haven't drawn my whole salary, even, for months. I don't know what reasons he has for staying away, but his nerve mustn't give out now." "Mr. Harker!" cried Lois. She turned blankly to Dosia, who had come forward. "What does he mean?" "She doesn't know where her husband is," said the girl convincingly. Her eyes and Mr. Harker's met. The somber eagerness faded out of his; he sighed and rose. "Anything I can do for you, Mrs. Alexander? I think I'll hurry to catch the next train; I haven't been home to my dinner yet." "Won't you have something here before you go?" asked Lois. "It's so late." "Oh, that's nothing. I'm used to it," returned Mr. Harker, with a pale smile and the passive, self-effacing business manner as he departed, while Lois went up-stairs once more. The baby cried, and she soothed him, holding the warm little form close, closer to her--some thing tangible before she put him down again to step back into this strange void where Justin was not. For the first time, in this meeting with Mr. Harker, Lois realized the existence of a world beyond her ken--a world that had been Justin's. New as the visitor's words had been, they seemed to open to her a vision of herculean struggle: the way this man had looked--_his_ wife had "wondered that he was still alive." And Justin--where was he now? _She_ had not noticed, she had not wondered--until lately. Slight as seemed her recognition, her sympathy, her help, it was the one thing now that kept her reason firm. She knew that she had not been all unfaithful; sometimes he had been rested, sometimes cheered, when she was near. She had suffered, too; _she_ had longed for _his_ help and sympathy. No, she would not think of that; she would not. When two are separated, one must love enough to bridge the gulf--what matter which one? It seemed now as if there were so much that she might have given, if all this torrent of love that nearly broke her heart might have been poured out and poured out at his feet--lavished on him, without regard to need or fitness or expense, as Mary lavished her precious box of spikenard on One she loved. Now that he was gone, there could be nothing too hard to have done for him, no words too sweet for her to have said to him.