“She is still obstinate, Craven, and never says a word against her starvation diet. I am afraid we’ve made a serious mistake in our estimate of her. She is what you sometimes call ‘game all through.’ She’ll die, but she won’t give in. I wish we had left her alone, and allowed her to marry whom she pleased. That escapade of hers on the mountain may cost Octavia her life. And if Octavia dies, her four thousand a year dies too, and I shall have to become a companion to some lady, and lead a horrible life of dependence and fear, and you will have to go back to your precarious existence.” “You are a pleasant comforter,” said Craven Black impatiently. “All these horrors exist only in your imagination. Octavia will outlive us all. Where is she?” “In her own room.” Black ran up the stairs to his wife’s room. He found Octavia standing before the fire, clad in a loose wrapper, whose bright hue made her pallid face look hideous. Her eyes were strangely large, and they were thrown into relief by heavy black circles under them. Her long black hair hung loosely down her back. She looked thin and old and spectral, all the brightness and beauty gone from her. Her features were hard in their expression, and the wicked soul declared itself plainly in her unlovely countenance. Craven Black recoiled at sight of her. How two or three days had changed her! He felt a sudden repugnance to her. He had a horror of weakness and illness, and a fear came over him that his cousin’s terrors might not be without foundation. “Oh, it’s you, Craven?” cried Octavia, in a thin, querulous voice. “How long you have stayed. Did you get my medicine?” “Yes, here it is,” and Black produced a bottle from his pocket. “It’s a cough mixture.” “I feel such a tightness here,” and Octavia put her hand upon her chest. “Such a horrible restriction. I dare say, though it will be all right in the morning. I remember, Craven, you hate sick people. Your dinner is waiting. Let us go down.” “You had better go to bed,” said Craven abruptly. “I cannot lie down. My chest pains me when I attempt it. Had you good luck at Inverness?” Craven Black assented. “Did you see any one you knew?” “No; how should I? None of my acquaintances come to the Highlands in November. I was as unrecognized at Inverness as I should be in Patagonia. I will change my clothes and take you down to dinner.” He went into his dressing-room and changed his garments. Octavia paced the room restlessly during his absence. He returned in the course of some minutes and escorted his wife down to the dining-room, where Mrs. Artress joined them. He noticed that Octavia ate nothing at the meal. She complained of a lack of appetite, and moved restlessly in her chair, starting at every sound. “I have read of the ancients placing a death’s head at their feasts,” said Black grimly, “and I seem to have followed their customs. Octavia, do try to look like something better than a galvanized corpse.”