“What is it?” Franz questioned, for twice Philip had essayed to speak. “I am so sorry, Franz. So sorry,” he cried in broken tones. “I know you are,” Franz answered simply. “There is this that I want to tell you, Franz, if I may,” Philip continued. “Yes?” “Barbara is to be married to-night.” He came to an abrupt stop. “I have determined to go East,” he went on presently. “It will mean greater opportunity. A garbled version of that affair of Anson's has got abroad and my mother is equally anxious to break up here. What I wished to ask you is, won't you join me, dear old fellow?” “And allow my blindness to be your affliction?” “You are more to me than I can express. First my mother—then you, and after you—Perkins.” Franz swept his hand across his forehead. “Wait! How can I think of the future? My very world is ended! Wait.” Philip stole out of the room and from the house. It was snowing heavily. The ground was already covered. It had been bare at supper-time. He kept on up the street until he was opposite the Gerards. The house was brilliantly lighted, but the wedding party was still absent at the church. He must see her once more! So he waited in the cold, half hidden by the falling snow that clung to him and that drifted about the quiet and empty streets. Yes, Franz should live with him and his mother. Comfort was possible with favoring circumstances where happiness was not. Presently, disturbing his reverie, the dull rumble of wheels was audible, muffled and deadened by the fall of snow. The carriages rolled into view. He saw the many figures moving about, as the guests streamed into the house, and straining his eyes he saw Barbara. She stood in the open door, and as she turned to answer some one who had spoken on the walk—her voice reached him, gay and bright. The guests had disappeared, yet he waited. He would wait until she entered her carriage to be driven to the station. It could not be very long, and then he, too, would forget. Suddenly the doors swung back. He saw her, attended by her friends, clinging to her husband's arm, and then—she was whirled away and it was over. Turning he went directly home and to his room, and took from the drawer the bundle of letters. One by one he burned them—and as the last letter left his hand, far off in the distance pealed the shrill shriek of the whistle that announced the approach of the train. The sound drew him to the window. He opened it and leaned upon the ledge. He heard the shrill whistle once again, the creaking of the wheels upon the frosted rails, the ringing of a bell—and she was gone! gone! A desperate sense of wrong and injury—of pain and grief swept over him. He turned from the white night and threw himself upon the bed,—abject, lonely, miserable! If he could only die—if he only could! but it was the sickness not of death, but of life, that was on him. For a time he was unable to think or to throw off the stupor possessing him.