that she was very unhappy, that her husband was a spendthrift and a
rake. Scarcely a year after her marriage Montague heard the story of
his death by an accident while driving.

He had heard no more until a short time after his coming to New
York, when the home papers had reported the death of Judge Dupree.
And then a week or so ago had come a letter from Lucy, to his
brother, Oliver Montague, saying that she was coming to New York,
perhaps to live permanently, and asking him to meet her and to
engage accommodations for her in some hotel.

Montague wondered what she would be like when he saw her again. He
wondered what five years of suffering and experience would have done
for her; whether it would have weakened her enthusiasm and dried up
her springs of joy. Lucy grown serious was something that was
difficult for him to imagine.

And then again would come a mood of doubt, when he distrusted the
thrill which the memory of her brought. Would she be able to
maintain her spell in competition with what life had brought him
since?

His revery was broken by Oliver, who came in to ask him if he wished
to go to meet her. "Those Southern trains are always several hours
late," he said. "I told my man to go over and 'phone me."

"You are to have her in charge," said Montague; "you had better see
her first. Tell her I will come in the evening." And so he went to
the great apartment hotel--the same to which Oliver had originally
introduced him. And there was Lucy.