mingled acquiescence and regret. Craven passed through into the
room. It was empty. He stood a moment hesitating--indefinite
anxiety giving place to definite fear.

"O Hara San," he whispered, and the whisper seemed to echo
mockingly from the empty room. He listened with straining ears for
her answer, for her footstep--and he heard nothing but the heavy
beating of his own heart. Then a moan came from the inner room and
he followed the sound swiftly. The room was darkened and for a
moment he halted in the doorway, seeing nothing in the half light.
The moaning grew louder and as he became accustomed to the
darkness he saw the old armah crouching beside a pile of cushions.

In a second he was beside her and at his coming she scrambled to
her feet with a sharp cry, staring at him wildly, then fled from
the room.

He stood alone looking down on the cushions. His heart seemed to
stop beating and for a moment he reeled, then he gripped himself
and knelt down slowly.

"O Hara San--" he whispered again, with shaking lips, "little
O Hara San--little--" the whisper died away in a terrible gasping
sob.

She lay as if asleep--one arm stretched out along her side, the
other lying across her breast with her small hand clenched and
tucked under her chin, her head bent slightly and nestled
naturally into the cushion. The attitude was habitual. A hundred
times Craven had seen her so--asleep. It was impossible that she