BEATRIX SEES THE GAME.

They were very busy that day in the ward of hopeless cases. Beatrix had not had a moment to rest. All day long the tired little feet were running here and there in obedience to the nurse's call, the deft fingers rolled bandages, smoothed fever-scorched pillows, bathed throbbing temples, held cooling drinks to fever-parched lips; in short, accomplished the one thousand and one acts which soothe the sufferer and comfort even the dying. The office of nurse is truly a grand one. What more noble position can a woman fill than that of comforter and consoler, to help ease the pain of serious illness, and, if it can not be assuaged, to do all that human power can do to help the poor sufferer bear the awful suffering that is his doom! So Beatrix, feeling that she had found her life-work, found it in this strange way, and at the very crisis of her life, when she had been on the point of despairing, feeling that, at all events, she had found employment for the present, which would help to deaden her pain, worked away with a will, and was soon looked upon as one of the most efficient and willing assistants attached to the Home.

Today they had been overworked, for there had been an accident—a falling building had crushed and mangled several poor creatures a few blocks away; and a number of the sufferers had been carried to the Home, there to linger for a time in awful agony and then pass away. Beatrix grew heart-sick as she gazed upon the suffering around her, her gentle heart touched inexpressibly by the scenes and sounds, the groans, and cries, and moans; and in some cases—more touching than any other—there was quiet patience, brave heroism; there were those—real heroes—who set their teeth hard together over the groans that would try to force themselves through, and bore stoically the tortures of the lost.

The sun set upon that busy day, a day never to be forgotten by Beatrix Dane, never while she lived. The sun had set and twilight was coming down, and all alone in the ward for hopeless cases, Beatrix bent over the haggard face of an old woman—a coarse-featured, hard-handed old creature—who while intoxicated, had fallen under the wheels of a passing cab, and had been carried to the Home, which chanced to be nearer than the charity hospital. Beatrix was bathing the woman's brow with Cologne water, speaking gentle, kindly words of sympathy all the time, when a voice spoke her name, a voice which always had an influence over Beatrix, and which she had learned to love dearly—Sister Angela's. Beatrix turned as the sister laid her hand upon her arm.

"My dear," the kind voice went on, gently, "you are overworked; you have done too much today for a novice; you must rest now. Go down to the little sitting-room and you will find some tea there. Yes, I insist upon it. I will take your place here."

"You?"

Beatrix's dark eyes rested lovingly upon the sister's pale face.

"You are tired out already, sister; you were up all night."

"But I am accustomed to that, my dear," Sister Angela returned, firmly; "and I find that the very best way to be of use in this place is to husband your strength, and keep some always in reserve. Go now, my child. You do not know what may lie before you ere this night is done."

Were her words prophetic? Looking back upon them afterward, Beatrix could almost believe them so. She went slowly away, however, for she would not disobey the kind sister; and as Beatrix went slowly down-stairs, Sister Angela took her place by the old woman's side. Not until she had reached the foot of the stairs did the girl realize how very weak she was.

"Sister Angela is right," she said to herself. "My strength is not sufficient to keep up as she does. That will come in time."

She went to the room where she had been directed, and after she had drunk a cup of tea and partaken of some refreshment she felt better. She was about to return to her task, when there was a loud ring at the door-bell, followed by a bustle and confusion in the entrance hall.

"Another case, I suppose," commented the girl, and she hastened into the hall just as one of the assistants came hastily to meet her.

"An accident!" she announced briefly. "A man has been thrown from his horse right in front of the door; so, of course, he was brought in here, and Heaven knows we have scarcely room enough to receive any more. The affair of yesterday has filled our wards to overflowing."

They were bringing the injured man into the hall, lying upon a stretcher, the pallid face uncovered, the eyes closed, as though Death had already set his seal there.

One glance, and Beatrix flew to the side of the stretcher with a wild cry which re-echoed through the house like a knell. But cries of pain and anguish were of too common an occurrence there to excite any comment.

She fell upon her knees beside the sofa where the injured man had been placed, and wrung her hands in frantic grief.

"Keith! Keith!" she wailed, in her wild, bitter anguish. "It is Keith, my husband, and he is dead!"

That agonized cry seemed to bring Keith back to life. The beautiful dark eyes flared swiftly open, and rested upon the white, terrified face bending over his own.

"Beatrix!"

The name faltered from his pale lips in one wild, joyous outcry; then the eyelids fluttered down and he was unconscious once more. Beatrix rose to her feet, pale and still.

"Take him up to my own room," she said, turning to the men who had borne that still form into the house. "He will be my especial care.—He is my husband!" Then she added, after a slight pause: "If you will carry him up now, I will lead the way."

They obeyed her without a word, and Keith Kenyon was carried to his wife's room, and placed in bed, while the physicians took possession of him, and Beatrix hastened away to tell Sister Angela.

The good sister was pleased and glad for Beatrix's sake that this strange occurrence had taken place, and Beatrix would have the privilege of nursing the man she so dearly loved. But the kindly face grew pale as death as she thought of the fresh complications that must now ensue. Who could foresee the end?

Beatrix took up her position at Keith's bedside and nursed him indefatigably. The days came and went, and still Keith lay there upon his bed of pain. Through Doctor Darrow, Beatrix was able to send word to old Bernard Dane as to Keith's whereabouts and condition, though Beatrix preferred that her own name should be kept out of the matter, and the message to Mr. Dane was sent, purporting to have come from Dr. Darrow.

Beatrix could not deny herself the privilege of nursing her husband, even though she knew that with his returning health she must go from him again. They must separate, and never hope to be anything to each other. Surely it was the saddest—the very saddest—experience on record. But the brave girl was strong in her determination. Better far to never see him again than to expose the life so dear to her to such a horrible fate!

It was the very acme of self-denial and abnegation; but any true woman would have done as Beatrix did. For what woman who loves a man will deliberately expose him to suffering of any description, mental or bodily? And this was such a horrible thing, that no wonder the poor girl, feeling herself accursed, felt at times almost tempted to take her own life, so that she might escape from the horrors of the future, and above all, put it beyond the possibility of harming the one so dearly loved.

One day, not long after Keith's arrival at the Home, Beatrix was informed that a lady and gentleman wished to see Mr. Kenyon. They were in the waiting-room, and Beatrix hastened thither to receive them.

She had fully expected to meet old Bernard Dane, and probably Mrs. Graves. The thought of Serena had never once entered her mind; for as Keith was almost always delirious, he could not tell her of the strange changes that had taken place since Beatrix had left home.

Imagine her surprise, as she entered the reception-room, to see at the old man's side Serena, the woman who so cordially hated her—Serena, her bitter, implacable foe!

As Beatrix entered the room, old Bernard Dane uttered a wild cry of delight.

"Beatrix! Good heavens! is it really you?" he faltered, brokenly. "We—we thought that you were dead!"

She smiled; but still she observed, with a pang at her sensitive heart, that he did not come near her, or even take her hand. Did he fear contagion?

Serena drew back as she came near, as though she feared infection from the girl's presence.

"How do you do, Serena?" said Beatrix, quietly. "I did not expect to see you; this is quite a surprise. I thought that you had returned to your home in the North long ago."

This is Serena's hour of triumph; for the sake of this moment of supreme satisfaction, she would have given a year of her life. She drew herself up proudly, and the pale eyes shone like glass.

"I shall never return North to live!" her shrill, high-pitched tones made answer; "my home is in New Orleans now. Have you not heard? Do you never see the newspapers? I am married. I am Mrs. Bernard Dane!"

In an instant Beatrix's mind had grasped the situation. She saw at once that this was Serena's game of vengeance.