contented tread as he trudged round to the kitchen to leave the block
of ice. He saw the first reddish-yellow shafts of sunlight as they
shot through the slats of the window-blinds, fell on his bureau,
lighting up the silver toilet articles and the leaning gilt frame
holding a large photograph of Irene Mitchell. He sat on the edge of
the bed, thrust his feet into his slippers, and stared at the picture.
Was it possible that he had really thought seriously of marrying her?
It seemed like a vague dream, his entire association with her. For
months he had been her chief escort; he had called on her at least
twice a week. He had made no denial when his and her friends spoke of
the alliance as a coming certainty, and yet a simple little mountain
girl had come into his life, and all the rest was over. But why think
of that when the other thing hung like a sinister pall above him?

There was a step in the corridor close to the door, then a rap.

"Come!" he cried, thinking it was a servant. The door opened
partially, and the reddish face of his sister, under a mass of
yellowish crinkly hair, peeped in, smiling.

"I heard you on the stairs," she said. "I'm not dressed, and so I'll
not kiss you. I've told the cook to get your breakfast at once, for I
know you are hungry."

"Thanks, I am," he answered. "I have been up all night."

She was ten years older than he, short, and firmly built. Her blue,
calculating eyes had a sleepy look.

"You must have been up late last night, yourself," he said, nothing