At half after five that afternoon the doctor and his friend McClintock entered the office of the Victoria. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. "You must have made some exertion to keep your present appointment. "Nothing—nothing," she answered, bursting into tears. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. Be a sport, and pile it all on me!" He went to bed. “Take off your tunic. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself.
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