Beth Norvell

"I am awfully sorry, old man," he explained apologetically, "but the

fact is, I do not feel well enough to remain down here to the spread.

Nothing serious, you know--indigestion or something like that. I 'll

run up to my room and lie down for a while; if I feel better I may

wander in later."

Craig looked concerned.

"Thought you were mighty white about the gills all the evening,

Ned--the lobster salad, likely. I hate letting you go, awfully; upon

my word, I do. I wanted Lizzie to meet you; she 's always heard me

singing your praises, and your not being there will prove quite a

disappointment to her. But Lord! if you 're sick, why, of course,

there's no help for it. Come down later, if you can, and I 'll run up

there as soon as I can break away from the bunch. Sure you don't need

the house physician?"

"Perfectly sure; all I require is rest and a bit of sleep. Been

working too hard, and am dead tired."

He sank down within the great arm-chair in the silence of his own room,

not even taking trouble to turn on the lights; mechanically lit a

cigar, and sat staring out of the window. Before him the black,

threatening cloud-shadows hung over the dark water of the lake; far

below resounded the ceaseless clatter of hoofs along the fashionable

avenue. He neither saw nor heard. Over and over again he reviewed the

past, bringing back to memory each word and glance which had ever,

passed between them. He was again with the "Heart of the World"

strollers, he was struggling with Burke in the depths of the mine, he

was passing through that day and night of misfortune on the ridge

overlooking Echo Canyon, he was riding for life--her life--across the

trackless desert. It all came before him in unnatural vividness,

seemingly as though each separate scene had been painted across that

black sky without.

Then he perceived the great playhouse he had just

left, the glorious glitter of lights, the reverberation of applause,

the cheering mob of men and women, and her--her bowing and smiling at

them, her dark eyes dancing with happiness and ignoring him utterly,

her whole body trembling to the intoxication of success. Oh, it was

all over; even if there had been no gulf of death between them, it was

all over. She had deliberately chosen to forget, under the inspiration

of her art she had forgotten. It had usurped her thought, her

ambition, her every energy. She had won her way through the throng,

yet the very struggle of such winning had sufficed to crowd him out

from memory had left the past as barren as was the desert amid the

dreariness of which they had parted. He set his teeth hard, striking

his clenched fist against the cushioned arm of the chair. Then he sat

silent, his cigar extinguished. Once he glanced at his watch, but

already the hour was too late for any hope of catching the west-bound

train, and he dropped it back in his pocket, and sat motionless.

Suddenly some one rapped upon the outside door. It would be Craig,

probably, and he called out a regretful "Come in." A bell-boy stood

there, his buttoned-up figure silhouetted against the lights in the

hall.