He took some of the manuscript into his hands, rough sheets as well as neatly typed copy; and, standing before the now leaping fire, began slowly to tear it, page by page, and fling it into the blaze. He smiled as he watched the red twists fly up the chimney. There was subtle irony in the situation. Major Bethune calling upon his friend’s widow to wake from her sleep of oblivion, forcing her back to the sorrow she would fain forget, sparing her no pang, watching her as the warder watches the convict to see that not a jot of her task escape her; seeing, as he watched, the old love reclaim her with strong hands, so that, wooed once more and once more won, she was ready, as surely no woman was before, to greet the dead returned! ... "Harry, Harry, Harry!" He would never get that cry out of his head. He let himself fall into the chair upon the hearth, his hands resting listlessly from their task. How was he to endure life, how carry out the most trivial business with this sick distaste of all things upon him? * * * * * Aspasia opened the door and looked in. She gave a cry of pleasure as she saw him. "How cosy!" she said, and came over to the fire. Then she stood, gazing down at him, with a small smile trembling on her lips. She had evidently been crying, and the curves of these same lips looked softer and more childish than ever. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes darkly shadowed. Bethune sat motionless. After a pause she spoke, still staring reflectively at the flames. "I wondered where you had been all this dreadful night. You know what has happened? Of course you know." "I know." Nothing in his voice or manner struck her—she was so full of the tremendous occasion. "Ah!" she cried, suddenly flashing upon him, "I think I’m sorry you already know. I should have liked to have been the first to tell you. For you—for you, at least, it’s all glorious. Oh, how glad you must be! What it must mean to you!" He sat like stone: she was worse than the robin. He had thought he had suffered to the fullest capacity; but the girl, with her clear voice and her honest eyes, was tearing his heart to pieces. Then she became conscious that in his silence, though she had known him ever as a silent man, there was something almost sinister. "What is it?" she asked him. "Oh, I suppose you knew all along? No—you didn’t, you couldn’t!" He shook his head. "Ah!" Her bright face clouded. "It is because of her, of poor Aunt Rosamond—of him, rather? You think he has come back to her too late, only to lose her?" He resumed the tearing up of his manuscript with fingers clenched upon the page. "What are you doing?" she cried, quickly diverted. "Oh, Major Bethune, why? Don’t tear up all that beautiful life—all you’ve been working at so long. Oh, what a pity—what a pity!"