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 pleasure—then cloud with doubt as she stretched out her hand and drew him in.

“Angus,” she said, “Angus Burke—is it you?”

He nodded, lifting his eyes to her face, and she, reading what was in them, placed her hands on his shoulders, and, sorrowing for his sorrow, kissed him as a mother would have kissed.

“Angus,” she said. “It is Angus—this man is Angus Burke.”

“Is—is he—” he stammered, but could not finish his question.

“No,” said Mary, hastening to give the assurance he sought. “He is no worse—and no better. Doctor Knipe says he has—a chance. He—he’ll be glad to have you with him, Angus—when he can know you. He talks about you constantly in his delirium.”

He nodded; then said in a voice devoid of animation, “I had to come.”

“But how did you know? We were going to keep it from you.”

Angus did not reply to this, felt some intangible clutch upon his honor which forbade him to reply—or maybe it was a reluctance to mention Lydia Canfield’s name. He did not avoid or evade the question; he simply let it lie and die. There were no evasions in him, nor was he capable of diplomacy. He stood and gazed at the floor stolidly, as was characteristic of him in