strain of music, or a ray of moonlight on the floor would bring the past to me so vividly that I would stagger beneath the burden, and feel that it was greater than I could bear. But God was very merciful, and sent me work which took up all my time, and drove me away from my own pain to soothe the pain of others. When Katy came to us last summer there was an hour of trial, when faith in God grew weak, and I was tempted to question the justice of His dealing with me. But that too passed, and in my love for your child I forgot the mother in part, looking upon her as a sister rather than the Katy I had loved so well. I would have given my life to have saved that child for her, even though it was a bar between us, something which separated her from me more than the words she spoke at the altar. Though dead, that baby is still a bar, and Katy is not the same to me she was before that little life came into being. It is not wrong to love her as I do now. I feel no pang of conscience save when something unexpected carries me back to the old ground where I have fought so many battles.” Morris paused a moment, while Wilford said, “She spoke of telegraphing for you. Why was that, and when?” Thus interrogated, Morris told of the message which had brought him to New York, and narrated as cautiously as possible the particulars of the interview which followed. Morris’s manner was that of a man who spoke with perfect sincerity, and it carried conviction to Wilford’s heart, disarming him for a time of the fierce anger and resentment he had felt while listening to Morris’s story. Acting upon the good impulse of the moment, he arose, and offering his hand to Morris, said, “Forgive me that I ever doubted you. It was natural that you should come, but foolish in Katy to send or think Genevra is living. I have seen her grave myself. I know that she is dead. Did Katy name any one whom she believed to be Genevra?” “No one. She merely said she had seen the original of the picture,” Morris replied. “A fancy,—a mere whim,” Wilford muttered to himself, as, greatly disquieted and terribly humbled, he paced the room moodily, trying not to think hard thoughts either against his wife or Dr. Grant, who, feeling that it would be pleasanter for Wilford if he were gone, suggested returning to Silverton at once, inasmuch as the crisis was past and Katy out of danger. There was a struggle in Wilford’s mind as to the answer he should make to this suggestion, but at last he signified his willingness for the doctor to leave when he thought best. It was broad day when Katy woke, so weak as to be unable to turn her head upon the pillow, but in her eyes the light of reason was shining, and she glanced wonderingly, first at Helen, who had come in, and then at Wilford, as if trying to comprehend what had happened.