intervals from somewhere in the hall. There was a still, withdrawn
look about her, as though she were contemplating something unbreakable
that had at last been broken, as though a light had gone out in her for
ever. So that Robert could not run to her as he had meant to do.

It was Edith speaking.

"You won't leave me, will you, Christine? Poor Jim! And then that
man--I should die of fright. Besides, it wouldn't be right--not
proper--to-morrow one of my sisters----"

"Very well. I will spend the night here. But Robert must go to my
people. They won't mind now. I shall be back in half an hour."

She helped him into his reefer coat, which she had brought down with
her. And still he could not speak to her. She was a long way off from
him. As they went into the hall he hid his face against her arm for
fear of the things that he might see. But once they were outside, and
the good night wind rushed against his face, a great intoxicating joy
came over him. He wanted to dance and shout. The Dragon was dead. No
one could frighten them again.

"Aren't we ever coming back, Christine?"

"No, dear, I don't think so."

He looked back at the grim, high house. For a moment a sorrow as deep
as joy rushed over him. It was as though he knew that something
besides the Dragon had died up there in that dimly lit room--as though
he were saying good-bye to something he would never find, though he