Mr. Feuerstein sank slowly into the seat beside her. ``Soul's
wife,'' he murmured. ``Ah--but I have been near to death. The
strain of the interview with your father-- the anguish--the
hope--oh, what a curse it is to have a sensitive soul! And my
old trouble''--he laid his hand upon his heart and slowly shook
his head--``returned. It will end me some day.''

Hilda was trembling with sympathy. She put her hand upon his.
``If you had only sent word, dear,'' she said reproachfully, ``I
would have come. Oh--I do love you so, Carl! I could hardly eat
or sleep--and--''

``The truth would have been worse than silence,'' he said in a
hollow voice. He did not intend the double meaning of his
remark; the Gansers were for the moment out of his mind, which
was absorbed in his acting. ``But it is over for the present--
yes, over, my priceless pearl. I can come to see you soon. If I
am worse I shall send you word.''

``But can't I come to see you?''

``No, bride of my dreams. It would not be--suitable. We must
respect the little conventions. You must wait until I come.''

His tone was decided. She felt that he knew best. In a few
minutes he rose. ``I must return to my room,'' he said wearily.
``Ah, heart's delight, it is terrible for a strong man to find
himself thus weak. Pity me. Pray for me.''