man she remembered so well.

Her bewildered eyes turned from the silent, unfamiliar face among the
satin cushions, to the living face in the moonlight,--the young, brown
eyes, the short, brown hair falling forward over the left temple, the
erect, elastic figure, the strong loving hands stretching out to her.

She was so tired, so heart sick, so full of longing for the love she
had lost.

"Felix," she sobbed, and, blindly groping to reach what she feared
was a hallucination, she stumbled down the steps, and was caught up in
the arms flung wide to catch her, and which folded about her as if
forever. She sighed his name again, upon the passionate young lips
which had inherited the great love she had put aside so long before.

* * * * *

As the last words died away, the Critic drew himself up and laughed.

He had told the story very dramatically, reading the letter from the
envelope he had called a "property," and he had told it well.

The laugh broke the spell, and the Doctor echoed it heartily.

"All right, old man," said the Critic, "you owed me that laugh. You're
welcome."

"I was only thinking," said the Doctor, his face still on a broad
grin, "that we have always thought you ought to have been a novelist,