of self were broken down, and her personal preoccupations swept away on the
current of a wider sympathy. As she sat there in the radius of lamp-light
which, for so many evenings, had held Dick and herself in a charmed circle
of tenderness, she saw that her love for her boy had come to be merely a
kind of extended egotism. Love had narrowed instead of widening her, had
rebuilt between herself and life the very walls which, years and years
before, she had laid low with bleeding fingers. It was horrible, how she
had come to sacrifice everything to the one passion of ambition for her
boy....

At daylight she sent another messenger, one of her own servants, who
returned without having seen Dick. Mr. Peyton had sent word that there
was no change. He would write later; he wanted nothing. The day wore on
drearily. Once Kate found herself computing the precious hours lost to
Dick's unfinished task. She blushed at her ineradicable selfishness,
and tried to turn her mind to poor Darrow. But she could not master her
impulses; and now she caught herself indulging the thought that his illness
would at least exclude him from the competition. But no--she remembered
that he had said his work was finished. Come what might, he stood in the
path of her boy's success. She hated herself for the thought, but it would
not down.

Evening drew on, but there was no note from Dick. At length, in the shamed
reaction from her fears, she rang for a carriage and went upstairs to
dress. She could stand aloof no longer: she must go to Darrow, if only to
escape from her wicked thoughts of him. As she came down again she heard
Dick's key in the door. She hastened her steps, and as she reached the hall
he stood before her without speaking.

She looked at him and the question died on her lips. He nodded, and walked