It should be said that the library opened from the parlours, and was at that time separated from them by a heavy portiere of crimson stuff, the doors not being drawn. This drapery she was in the habit of folding apart at the hours of my probable return, and as I came through the long parlours my eyes had the first greeting of her, before my voice or arms. Upon this evening, as upon others, I entered by the parlour door, and came--more quickly than usual--toward the library. I was in a great hurry; one of the acute attacks of the chronic condition which besets the busy doctor. As I crossed the length of the thick carpet, the rooms shook beneath my tread; I burst into, rather than entered, the library,--not seeing her, I think, or not pausing to see her, in the accustomed manner. When I had come to her I found that the child was not with her, as usual. She was sitting alone by the library table under the drop-light, which held a shade of red lace. She had a gown of white wool trimmed with ermine; a costume which gave me pleasure, and which she wore upon cool evenings, not too often for me to weary of it. She regarded my taste in dress as delicately and as delightedly as she did every other wish or will of mine. She had been trying to read; but the magazine lay closed upon her knee below her folded hands. Her face wore an anxious look as she turned the fine contours of her head toward me. "Oh," she cried, "at last!" She moved to reach me, swiftly, murmuring something which I did not hear, or to which I did not attend; and under the crimson curtains met me, warm and dear and white, putting up her sweet arms. I kissed her carelessly--would to God that I could forget it! I kissed her as if it did not matter much, and said:-- "Helen, I must have my dinner this instant!" "Why, surely," she said, retreating from me with a little shock of pained surprise, "It is all ready, Esmerald. I will ring." She melted from my arms. Oh, if I had known, if I had known! She stirred and slipped and was gone from me, and I stood stupidly looking at her; her figure, against the tall, full book-cases, shone mistily, while she touched the old-fashioned bell-rope of gold cord. "Really, I hadn't time to come home at all," I added testily. "I am driven to death. I've got to go again in ten minutes. But I supposed you would worry if I didn't show myself. It is a foolish waste of time. I don't know how I am ever going to get through. I wish I hadn't come." CHAPTER IV. She changed colour--from fair to flush, from red to white again--and her hand upon the gold cord trembled. I remembered it afterward, though I was not conscious of noticing it at the time. "You need not," she replied, in her low, controlled voice, "on my account. You need never come again." "It is easier to come," I answered irritably, "than to know that you sit here making yourself miserable because I don't."