Cyrus mounted to his seat and pulled the lever over. The engine was running badly that night, and the wind almost blew him from his perch. Aside from the improbability that the little sculptor would brave such weather, the charioteer was presently so immersed in his own immediate concerns that he all but forgot the prospective visit. When he had brought his charge to its senses and reduced it to some control, he was interrupted by the plight of a belated push-cart woman, who was dragging anchor and drifting fast to leeward under the furious impulsion of the nor'easter. Cyrus had just dragged her almost from under his ponderous wheels, when a beam flashed in his eyes, and he looked up to see a truck close upon them. His yell split the darkness. The truck-driver, with a mighty wrench, swung his vehicle sharp to the left, and up on the sidewalk. The uptilted lights shone full into the lower window of the little, old, friendly house. Pressed against that window Cyrus saw the apparition of a tear-softened, desolate visage. Reason, prudence, and propriety deserted their posts in his brain simultaneously. A dozen long-legged leaps carried him as far as the vestibule of the little house. There his knees basely weakened. Perhaps her heart divined his step and sent her forth to meet him; or perhaps it was his old ally, Chance, that brought her into the vestibule as he stood there shaking. “Oh!” she cried, and shrank back into a corner, with a deprecatory movement, which to him was infinitely pathetic. “I'm sorry,” said Cyrus. “I saw your face and thought you were in trouble. If--if you wanted me to sit for you again,” he said composedly, “I should be very glad to, until you've finished your sketch.” “Oh, no. I couldn't ask you. I couldn't think of--after--what--what--” Her voice waned into silence. “Don't feel that way at all,” he encouraged her with resolved cheerfulness. “I can be a model and nothing more, again, I assure you.” Her upturned eyes implored him. “Don't be cruel,” she said. “Cruel?” he repeated wonderingly. “Not at all. I'll be polite. It isn't too late to offer my best wishes. Though I'm not sure I know the name.” “What name?” “Your--your married name.” “Then you don't know?” she gasped. The brain of Cyrus the Gaunt suddenly went numb. “I know you went away from us to get married.” “I did,” she quavered. “But I couldn't. I--I--I tried to make myself go through with it. I couldn't. No woman could when--when--” Her voice trembled into silence. A boisterous back-draft of the tempest thrust its way through the door and puffed out the little vestibule light. With a sense of irreparable loss impending he felt, rather than heard, her moving from him into the blackness of the outer world. Yet his mind seemed clogged and chained as he strove to grasp the meaning of what she had said--or was it what she had left unsaid? And in a moment she would be gone forever.