She stood still. There was nothing she could do to help him--nothing. This was the bitterest thing of all. She must stand by and look on passively--she who would have died to spare him pain. Could she but dare to stoop and clasp her arms about him, to hold him close against her heart and shield him, were it with her own body, from all further harm or wrong; surely then he would be Arthur to her again; surely then the day would break and the shadows flee away. Ah, no, no! How could he ever forget? Was it not she who had cast him into hell--she, with her own right hand? She had let the moment slip by. He rose hastily and sat down by the table, covering his eyes with one hand and biting his lip as if he would bite it through. Presently he looked up and said quietly: “I am afraid I startled you.” She held out both her hands to him. “Dear,” she said, “are we not friends enough by now for you to trust me a little bit? What is it?” “Only a private trouble of my own. I don't see why you should be worried over it.” “Listen a moment,” she went on, taking his hand in both of hers to steady its convulsive trembling. “I have not tried to lay hands on a thing that is not mine to touch. But now that you have given me, of your own free will, so much of your confidence, will you not give me a little more--as you would do if I were your sister. Keep the mask on your face, if it is any consolation to you, but don't wear a mask on your soul, for your own sake.” He bent his head lower. “You must be patient with me,” he said. “I am an unsatisfactory sort of brother to have, I'm afraid; but if you only knew---- I have been nearly mad this last week. It has been like South America again. And somehow the devil gets into me and----” He broke off. “May I not have my share in your trouble?” she whispered at last. His head sank down on her arm. “The hand of the Lord is heavy.” PART III. CHAPTER I.