did. He hesitated, from pure unselfishness, to bring upon her any

distress that their marriage might cause. The poor fool could not understand that she would have gladly given up everything in life for him. He was called away to fill a lucrative engagement, and in his absence her heart changed toward him. Soon afterward she died. When he came to me he was broken in spirit and body, and it was my privilege to start him aright in a chastened and nobler life. He and I built the cabin, and there he was to pass the winter in unremitting study and self-mastery.

“That was the story as he told it to me and as he believed it to be. But I saw that something was behind it that in his sweetness and generosity he had never suspected. I myself learned the truth. By means of a few inquiries made by letter to a friend in San Francisco, I found that an old school-friend of the girl had made the trouble. It was a case of malicious revenge. The girl whom my friend loved had innocently and unconsciously received the love of a man for whom she cared nothing, as her whole affection was with my friend. This man was very rich, and for that and other reasons was regarded as a prize. It appears that before losing his heart to this loveliest of girls he had been devoted to her old school-friend, a beautiful and dashing belle, who expected to marry him. When she found that she had lost him, she planned revenge. She was utterly without heart or principle. So she traded on her old school-mate’s confidence in her, and used that friendship to separate the lovers with lies and cunning. She succeeded. The girl died of a broken heart, and my friend’s life was ruined.”

A look of unutterable horror settled upon the young woman’s face, and she sat upright and rigid, staring helplessly at him.

“I never told him what I had learned,” resumed the physician. “It might have broken his heart, and he had suffered enough. I did not want him to know that malice, revenge, and murder had played their part in his story.”

The young woman’s face bore so singular an expression that the physician marvelled. She was white, and deep and unaccustomed lines marred her beauty.

“He knows the whole truth,” she said, quietly, and with a strange hardness. “He knows that I am the woman who brought about their separation. He learned it from me long ago in his cabin.” What Dr. Malbone might have done under the spur of the horror and amazement that filled him was checked by a violent fit of coughing with which his patient had been seized. His physician’s training instantly sent him to the bedside.

“Help me here!” he cried, as he raised the sufferer.

The young woman staggered to the bed. Dr. Malbone shot a malevolent glance at her, but she did not heed it. He raised his hand to thrust her back, but she grasped it, and quietly and firmly said,--

“I am going to help you.”

He yielded, and told her what to do, and she did it.

The cough was checked, and the sufferer was laid back upon the pillow. His eyes were open, and he looked from one of the watchers to the other as they stood on opposite sides of the bed. At first he was puzzled, and then a bright look of recognition lighted up his face. He smiled as he extended a feeble hand to each.

“You are safe,” he faintly said to the young woman. “I am glad. Dr. Mal-bone will be kind to you.” To the physician he said, his voice tremulous with affection, “My dear old friend, always true, always kind.”

He wanted to say more, but Dr. Mal-bone checked him and gave him something to strengthen him. He took it, shaking his head and smiling sadly. Presently, as his eyes grew brighter, Dr. Malbone said,--

“You may speak now, Adrian, if you wish.”

The young woman had knelt, and, taking the sufferer’s hand in both of hers, bowed her head over it as she pressed it to her lips.

“Look at me,” he said to her.

She raised her head, and they looked long and silently at each other. He seemed troubled and anxious.

“My poor friend,” he said, “you have not yet learned. Dr. Malbone--a letter--my pocket.”

“I have read the letter, my friend,” she hastened to say. “I know all about my father, and I know how thoughtful and kind you were not to tell me.”

“Then you forgive me?” he begged.

“Forgive you, my friend? Yes, a thousand times; but how can you forgive----”

She buried her face in his pillow; her arm stole round him, and she drew him against her breast.

“I did that long ago,” he replied.

“My noble, generous friend!” she said. “But can you understand what you have been to me, what you have done for me, what you are to me? Can you believe that you have made a true woman of me? Am I still the she-wolf, my friend?”

A supreme agony moved her in this appeal. He feebly tried to check her with his hand, but she nestled her cheek close against his and pleaded,--

“Do you understand that you have made me worthy of every kind regard that so noble a man could have for a woman? Can you believe, friend of my life, that you have made me such a woman as would be perfect in your eyes?”

He made no reply, and, still holding him in her arms, she raised her head to look into his face. He was regarding her with a strange and distant wistfulness, and there shone in his eyes a pale, far light that stretched through infinite space. A faint smile played upon his lips, the feeble pressure of his hand closed upon hers.

“You will not leave me, will you?” she pleaded. “You will come back to health, my friend. You will teach me, you will guide me. The world will be bright and beautiful, for all our suffering has been borne. We belong each to the other, my friend, in friendship, trust, and sympathy.”

Still he smiled as he looked into her face; and as he smiled, and she saw the strange, far light that shone from so inconceivable a distance in the awful depths of his eyes, her eager heart found a bridge of glass spanning the gulf between them. Then he sighed deeply, and his eyes rolled upward. She sprang from the bed to her feet.

“Dr. Malbone!” she cried, in a suppressed voice, “quick! he has fainted!”

The physician, who had stepped a little way apart, came forward and looked down into the still face of his friend. Then he glanced up at the young woman, who was trembling with eager impatience.

“There is nothing to do,” sadly replied Dr. Malbone; then he passed round the bed, took the young woman gently by the arm, and, in a kind voice, said, “Come with me.”

She went with him, wondering, and looking over her shoulder toward the bed. He led her into an adjoining room, closed the door, and placed a chair for her.

“No, Dr. Malbone!” she protested. “How can I, when he needs us both so much? Hurry back to him; I will stay here if you wish.”

“No,” replied the physician; “my place is here.”

A look of desperate eagerness settled in her face, and she was listening intently for a sound from the other room. The physician regarded her pityingly, as she stood trembling in an agony of impatience and apprehension. Unable to control herself longer, she seized him by the arm, and cried,--

“Dr. Malbone, you know best, but I can’t bear to leave him! Do you know that I fear he will die? He is all the world to me, and I can’t bear to let him go. Do you understand that? I want him to live. I want to show him what a good woman’s trust and love can be. I want to give my whole life to his happiness. I want to atone for all the evil and suffering that I have brought upon him. I want him to know that he has found peace and a refuge at last. Dr. Malbone, go and save him!”

Dr. Malbone took her hands in his, and said,--

“Will you try to understand what I am going to say?”

“Yes, yes!” she answered.

“Then command all the strength of your soul.”

“Dr. Malbone!” she gasped, peering into his eyes, her face blanching.

With pity and tenderness the physician said,--

“Our friend is dead; he died in your arms.”

THE END.