The hands of the clock upon the mantel travelled slowly round the lettered face. As she watched it she felt a sudden desire to shake them into swiftness. She touched the clock and drew back, laughing at her childishness. A carriage in the street caught her ears and she went to the window, glancing through the half-closed curtains. It passed by. Then a tall, black figure turning the corner arrested her gaze, and her heart leaped suddenly. The figure came on and she saw that it was an elderly clergyman with white hair and a benevolent face. She was seized with anger against him, and her impatience caused her to press her teeth into her trembling lip. In the street a light wind chased a cloud of dust along the sidewalk until it danced in little eddying waves into the gutter. An organ-grinder, passing below, looked up and lifted his hand. She took her purse from the drawer of the desk and threw him some change; but when the broken tune was ground out she shook her head and motioned him away. The sound grated upon her discordant nerves. She left the window and crossed the room again. The hands of the clock had made a half-hour's progress in their tedious march. A book of poems lay on the table, and she opened it idly, her mental fever excited by the lighter words of one who had sounded the depths and sunk beneath. "If Midge will pine and curse its hours away, Because Midge is not everything--for aye, Poor Midge thus loses its one summer day, Loses its all--and winneth what, I pray?" She threw the book aside and turned away--back to the window where there was dust and wind--back into the still room where the monotonous tick of the clock maddened her quivering mood. She walked to and fro in that silent waiting which is the part of women, and beside which the action of battle is to be faced with a song of thanksgiving. The trembling of her limbs frightened her, and she flung herself upon a divan. The weakness passed, and she got up again. Another half-hour had gone. All at once there was a ring at the bell. For an instant she felt her heart contract, and then a delirious dash of blood through her veins to her temples. Her pulses fluttered like imprisoned birds. A footstep crossed the hall, and the door of the drawing-room opened. "Mr. Ryder!" She wavered for an instant and went forward to meet him with an hysterical laugh. Her eyes were like emeralds held before a blaze, and the intense, opaline pallor of her face was warm as if tinged by a flame. He took her outstretched hand hungrily, his face flushing until the purplish tint rose to his smooth, white forehead. "Were you expecting me?" he asked. "I would sell my soul to believe that you were--with that look in your eyes." She shook her head impatiently. "I was not," she answered. "I was expecting no one. It is very warm in here--that is all." He looked disappointed. "Have you ever expected me?" he questioned, moodily--"or thought of me when I was not with you?"