“Better, much better. They have taken out the bullet. There is no danger, and he has recovered consciousness. I almost wish he hadn't. Oh, Norma dear--” She broke down and sat on the bed and sobbed. Norma came up and laid her hand on her shoulder. “Surely you don't believe this ghastly story?” The fair head nodded above the handkerchief. A voice came from-below it. “I must--it's horrible--Jimmie, of all men! I thought his life was so sweet and clean--almost like a good woman's--I can't understand it. If he is as bad as this, what must other men be like? I feel as if I shall never be able to look a man in the face again.” “But why should you take it for granted that he has done this?” asked Norma, tonelessly. Mrs. Deering raised her face and looked at her friend in blue-eyed dismay. “I did n't take it for granted. He told me so himself. Otherwise do you think I should have believed it?” “He told you so himself! When?” “A short while ago. I went into his room. I could n't help it--I felt as if I should have gone mad if I didn't know the truth. Parsons was there with him. She said I could come in. He smiled at me in his old way, and that smile is enough to make any woman fall in love with him. 'You've been crying, Connie,' he said. 'That's very foolish of you.' So I began to cry more. You would have cried if you had heard him. I asked him how he was feeling. He said he had never felt so well in his life. Then I blurted it out. I know I was a beast, but it was more than I could stand. 'Tell me that this madman's story was all lies.' He looked at me queerly, waited for a second or two, and then moved his head. 'It's all true,' he said, 'all true.' 'But you must have some explanation!' I cried. He shut his eyes as if he were tired and said I must take the facts as they were. Then Parsons came up and said I mustn't excite him, and sent me out of the room. But I did n't want to hear any more. I had heard enough, had n't I?” Norma, as she listened to the little lady's tale, felt her heart grow cold and heavy. Doubt was no longer possible. The man himself had spoken. He had not even pleaded extenuating circumstances; had merely admitted the plain, brutal facts. He had gone under a feigned name, seduced an honest girl, abandoned her, driven her to tragedy. It was all too simple to need explanation. “But what are we to do, dear?” cried Connie, as Norma made no remark, but stood motionless and silent. “I think we had better drop his acquaintance,” she replied with bitter irony. Connie flinched at the tone, being a tender-natured woman. She retorted with some spirit: “I don't believe you have any heart at all, Norma. And I thought you cared for him.” “You thought I cared for him?” Norma repeated slowly and cuttingly while her eyes hardened. “What right had you to form such an opinion?”