To Philip the day had come, as all days must, where one exists for them alone, with no other interest in their passing than that they go swiftly. What was in store for him he wondered. Even supposing he eventually succeeded, it would be the bitter satire of success. What could fame or money give him!—he was robbed of every inspiration. At least he could turn to his work for forgetfulness. That was something, even if it yielded him no further recompense. He looked at his watch. “It must soon be over with. They must soon be married,” he thought, and slipping into his hat and coat started down-stairs. His mother heard him and came into the hall. “Are you going out, Philip?” she asked. “Yes, dear. I want to see Franz. I haven't been there to-day. I'll not be out late.” “It's very cold.” “I shall not care.” She put up her lips to kiss him, then pressed her cheek to his. “I'm so sorry, Philip!” she whispered. It was the only expression of pity she had ventured. “Don't, mother. I can't endure it. Not now—not yet.” With a hasty good-by he hurried off. Ten minutes later and he stood with Perkins before the door leading into the room where Margaret lay. “Where is Franz?” Philip asked. Perkins nodded toward the door. “We can't induce him to leave her,” he said. “Why should you seek to? Poor fellow!” They were silent, gazing at each other, a depth of sorrow in their glance. Finally Perkins said, with a show of control: “Have you seen her, Philip?” “No.” “Why?” “I had decided to keep the memory I have of her unchanged. It is as I saw her when they were married. She was so happy, poor little thing!” “There is more than happiness in her face now,” Perkins observed thoughtfully. “Do you believe in a hereafter?” “What odds can it be? It's in the present our lot is cast.” “Don't you like to think you are destined to meet those you love again?” Philip placed his hand irresolutely upon the knob. “I shall go in. Perhaps I shall be able to determine what I do believe.” As he entered the room, a rush of cold air met him, for the windows were partially raised—the outer shutters only being closed. The dim light filled the apartment with shadowy indistinctness. Slowly and overpoweringly objects became plain in the somberness of his surroundings. Margaret lay upon a couch in the center of the room. She might have been asleep. At her side sat Franz, regardless of the stinging gusts of wind that came in between the shutters. Philip stepped to the couch and looked down upon the beautiful face, then he moved back quietly, and would have quitted the room, but Franz detained him by saying: “Is it you, Perkins?” “It is I,” Philip answered. Franz arose instantly, putting out his hand, and Philip clasped it eagerly. Without the wind sighed drearily. The sound was depressing. The naked branches of a tree growing in a corner of the yard lashed the house incessantly. The single lamp burned with a flickering flame.