When the New York papers came things were even better, for they recorded the end of the strike. Leonore even laughed over that big, big D. “I can’t imagine him getting so angry,” she said “He must have a temper, after all.” She sang a little, as she fixed the flowers in the vases, and one of the songs was “Happiness.” Nor did she snub a man who hinted at afternoon tea, as she had a poor unfortunate who suggested tennis earlier in the day. While they were sipping their tea, however, Watts came in from the club. “Helen,” he said, going to the bay window farthest from the tea-table, “come here I want to say something.” They whispered for a moment, and then Mrs. D’Alloi came back to her tea. “Won’t you have a cup, papa?” asked Leonore. “‘Not to-day, dear,” said Watts, with an unusual tenderness in his voice. Leonore was raising a spoon to her mouth, but suddenly her hand trembled a little. After a glance at her father and mother, she pushed her tea-cup into the centre of the table as if she had finished it, though it had just been poured. Then she turned and began to talk and laugh with the caller. But the moment the visitor was out of the room, Leonore said: “What is it, papa?” Watts was standing by the fire. He hesitated. Then he groaned. Then he went to the door. “Ask your mother,” he said, and went out of the room. “Mamma?” said Leonore. “Don’t excite yourself, dear,” said her mother. “I’ll tell you to-morrow.” Leonore was on her feet. “No,” she said huskily, “tell me now.” “Wait till we’ve had dinner.” “Mamma,” cried Leonore, appealingly, “don’t you see that—that—that I suffer more by not knowing it? Tell me.” “Oh, Leonore,” cried her mother, “don’t look that way. I’ll tell you; but don’t look that way!” “What?” Mrs. D’Alloi put her arms about Leonore. “The Anarchists have exploded a bomb.” “Yes?” said Leonore. “And it killed a great many of the soldiers.” “Not—?” “Yes.” “Thank you, mamma,” said Leonore. She unclasped her mother’s arms, and went towards the door. “Leonore,” cried her mother, “stay here with me, dear.” “I’d rather be alone,” said Leonore, quietly. She went upstairs to her room and sank down by an ottoman which stood in the middle of the floor. She sat silent and motionless, for over an hour, looking straight before her at nothing, as Peter had so often done. Is it harder to lose out of life the man or woman whom one loves, or to see him or her happy in the love of another. Is the hopelessness of the impossible less or greater than the hopelessness of the unattainable? Finally Leonore rose, and touched her bell. When her maid came she said, “Get me my travelling dress.” Ten minutes later she came into the library, saying to Watts. “Papa, I want you to take me to New York, by the first train.” “Are you crazy, my darling?” cried Watts. “With riots and Anarchists all over the city.” “I must go to New York,” said Leonore. “If you won’t take me, I’ll go with madame.” “Not for a moment—” began Watts.