farewell speech over the whist-table, but as he went to the door she rose
and followed him slowly.

In the hall she watched the servant help him on with his coat--her
features twisted into a stereotype smile of polite leave-taking.

"By the way," she said, with a sickening little laugh, "what was the
man's name--your friend, whom you lost?"

"Michael--Seymour Michael."

"Ah! Good-night--good-night."

Then she turned and walked slowly upstairs.

We are apt to read indifferently of human ills, whether of the flesh or
the soul. We are apt to overlook the fact that what we read may apply to
us. Some of us even bear upon us the mark of hereditary disease and
refuse to believe in it. Then suddenly comes a day when a pain makes
itself felt--a dumb, little creeping pain, which may mean nothing. We sit
down and, so to speak, feel ourselves. Before long all doubt goes. We
have it. The world darkens, and behold we are in the ranks of those upon
whom we looked a little while back with a semi-indifferent pity.

It was thus with Mrs. Agar. As some play with nature, so had she played
with her own heart. She had heard of a consuming love which is near akin
to hatred. She had read of passion which is stronger than the strongest
worldliness. She had smilingly doubted the existence of the broken heart
pure and simple. And now she sat in her own room, numbly, blindly feeling
herself, like one to whom the first warning of an internal deadly disease