CHRIS woke up on the morning of his birthday with the very real hope in his heart that the post might bring him some message from Marie Celeste. She had never before forgotten his birthday. Even when he saw that there was no letter from her he could hardly believe that there would be none later.

He hung about his rooms all the morning, till young Atkins dragged him out by main force.

"What's file matter with you that you're so fond of the house all at once?" he demanded disgustedly. He had previously had a heart- to-heart talk with their landlady and given her many instructions with regard to flowers and a lavish dinner that night.

"For only you two gentlemen, sir?" she had asked amazed, and Tommy had said: "No—I shan't be there—there's a lady coming." Then seeing the faint disapproval of her eyes, he added, chuckling: "Cheer up! It's all right! She's his wife!" He had told her enough of the truth to enlist her sympathy, packed his bag, and promptly proceded to lose Chris as soon as he had got him out of the house.

"I'll call for you at the club at six," were his last words. "And mind you're there."

Chris was there an hour before, chiefly because he had nothing else to do. He was irritated and annoyed, therefore, when the door 307 porter informed him that Mr. Atkins had left a message to the effect that he could not get to the club, but would be at the rooms at seven.

"And would you be sure to be there, sir," he added.

Chris frowned as he turned away. He had a great mind not to go home at all, but to leave Atkins in the lurch. He thought it very shabby of him, all things considered, but it came on to rain and the streets looked dull and uninviting, so he took a taxi and went home.

Home! He echoed the word in his heart wretchedly. What a home for a man to go to when he might have everything in the world he wanted, and a wife to smile at him from the other side of his own table! He missed Marie a hundred times a day—her step about the house—her voice—even the sight of her slippers and small personal belongings.

He took off his coat and hat in the hall, and went upstairs. There was a light in his room, and he could catch a glimpse of the table laid for dinner, and flowers . . . so many flowers there seemed.

"I don't know why you chucked money away on all this tomfoolery," he said shortly, as he pushed open the door. "If you think because it's my bally birthday . . . Marie Celeste!" The last words were a great cry as his wife rose from his big chair by the fire.

For a moment he stood staring at her with disbelieving eyes. He had longed for her so much all day; had been so hurt because she had forgotten his birthday, and now—here she was!

She was very pale, but she was smiling. She had taken off her hat and coat and looked very young and sweet in her little black frock, the dark hair curling softly about her face.

Chris could not find his voice, could hardly breathe. He was so sure that if he spoke the spell would be broken and that she would vanish from his longing eyes.

Then quite suddenly, she said:

"I've come back, Chris—if you want me."

"If I want you!" He fell on his knees beside her, and his shaking arms closed fast about her.

308 He had meant to try and explain so many had planned so often in his mind what he would say to her, how he would humble himself and ask her forgiveness, but now that the time had come, there seem no need for any of it.

Kisses and broken words, and the clasp of arms that had ached with loneliness and emptiness were more eloquent than the finest speech could have been. It was only when the landlady had knocked three times to ask if she should bring dinner that Chris thought about appearances, and then he kept his wife's hand in his all the time the choice dishes which young Atkins had chosen so carefully were put upon the table.

They pretended to eat a great deal, but it was only a pretense, and when the landlady had removed the last dish in offended silence Chris drew Marie Celeste down into his arms in the big chair.

He passed his hand over her face and hair and soft neck.

"I can't believe you're real," he said huskily. "How long are you going to keep me in my fool's paradise before you disappear again, Marie Celeste?" She raised herself and looked at him with mournful eyes.

"I couldn't come before," she answered "I had to be sure first."

"Sure—of me?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"No; of myself."

The dark flush of pain swept across his face.

"You mean—that you had to be sure whether you . . . you still cared for me at all."

She looked away from him.

"I loved you when you were a little boy—years ago," she said in a tremulous whisper. "I loved you when you went to Cambridge, and snubbed me so dreadfully when you came home . . . Chris—I loved you when I married you."

He raised her hand to his lips silently. The words were sweet, but it was not all that he wished to hear, and she went on disconnectedly.

309 "Chris—you know . . . I thought you had only married me for—for the money . . . I never knew till—till that last night——"

He interrupted.

"I don't want to hear—it was all my fault,"

"But I must tell you," she urged. "There is something I must tell you. It was my fault—everything that happened . . . about . . . about Feathers. You made me half mad, I think, and—and it was I who asked him to take me away. It was I who asked him—he was much too honorable . . . I—I can't bear that—that you should blame him."

"I blame myself—for everything," but his eyes searched her face with passionate jealousy.

"You said you hated me once," he reminded her morosely. "Marie Celeste, when did—when did you begin to care again?"

She looked away from him. Somehow she could not meet his eyes. There was a knowledge in her heart which she knew must always be a secret from him—the knowledge of her queer, inexplicable love for Feathers.

It was still there in her heart, and always would be, she knew, but already time had begun to soften and change it, as time subtly changes the outline and coloring of a picture without altering its beauty in the smallest degree—perhaps even adding to it.

"I saw a photograph of you—in . . . in his rooms," she whispered. "And I knew then . . . that whatever happened . . . I could not go."

It was the truth, neither more nor less; the old loyalty and allegiance had called her back—perhaps the old love, who knows?

Chris' arms tightened about her. Three times he had been so near to losing her, twice by death, and once—by something that would have been so infinitely worse!

He drew Marie down to him, and kissed her with passionate thankfulness.

"He saved your life for me—twice!" he said.

It was an all-sufficient answer to any doubt or suspicion that might still linger in his heart.

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