A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. “It was inevitable,” he declared. There indeed you see Monte Rosa. Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. If he recovers he may not accuse her. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. She turned back to Gerald, holding out her hand.
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