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 was to him. One single method of escape from his bondage seemed to offer itself: the Countess Nattatorrini had asked him to call. She had appeared to be interested in him; she had even exhibited enthusiasm. In any case he could scarcely foresee what this introduction might lead to. She might not like him once she had' seen him again; she might leave town any day. His brow knit with a fierce despair; after all, now, with his mother ill, whatever happened was of little import. He watched the old Negro, Mr. Arlington, marching up and down the lawn, pushing the heavy lawn-mower slowly in front of him, the clipped grass falling in showers on either side. In the back of his mind a dull anxiety persisted, that worry, that fear, which is more insidious, more dangerous to the system, than real physical pain. Today, his life seemed a hopeless muddle with which he had nothing at all to do. He had come to an impasse.

Rising from his chair, Gareth softly tiptoed up the carpeted steps until he stood before the closed door of his mother's chamber. Opening this door with the greatest precaution to be noiseless, he peeped into the partially darkened room. His mother lay on the bed, her hands by her sides, her face paler and more waxlike than he remembered ever to have seen it before. There was something in her appearance and her position which reminded him of death, and the ghost of a smile which hovered about her lips did not serve to