I looked from these last written words to the photograph. My eyes were
blurred, but Tom only leaned back, motionless as before, apathetic as
before.

"How long--" I began, tentatively.

"She lived a week after that," Callender replied, in his dry,
emotionless voice.

"And the man?"

"He was my brother," replied Callender. "She never saw him again. He
married Miss Stockweis about a month after."

I thought of Ralph Callender, cold, correct, slightly bored, as I have
always known him, of Miss Stockweis, a dull, purse-proud blonde.

I seized the poor little photograph and raised it reverently to my lips.

"Forgive me, Tom," I said, slightly abashed. (I never could control my
impulses.) "The best thing you can do is to thank God for her death.
Think of a woman like that--"

"Thank you," said Tom wearily. "Yes, I _am_ glad."

And then I grasped the thin brown hand in my own for a moment, and felt
it respond faintly to my clasp.

We sat as quietly as before in the cheerful, smoke-filled room, I
puffing slightly at my Ajar, and Tom's sleepless eyes fixed absently on