Both doctors were gone. Already nurse busied herself in the death-chamber.

But to Ronnie and Aliette, sitting side by side in the empty drawing-room, it seemed as though Julia's spirit still haunted the house, as though at any moment they might hear her fine courageous voice and see her come in to them. Outside--weeping for her--rain fell. The drip of it among the shrubberies, heard through closed curtains, was like the patter of little unhappy feet. If only, like the voice of the rain, their voices could weep for her! If only, like the feet of the rain, their feet could busy themselves about some task in her service!

A faint diffident knocking startled them. Mrs. Sanderson came in.

The automaton's cheeks were swollen. The eyes under her tortoise-shell spectacles showed red and heavy-lidded. "I'm sorry to disturb you," said Mrs. Sanderson, "but it was her wish." She moved toward them across the carpet; and Ronnie saw that she carried under her arm a thick wad of papers.

"She told me"--they hardly recognized the woman's voice--"to give you this as soon as she died. She told me to telephone Mr. Wilberforce, Mr. James Wilberforce. There's a letter for him, you know. I'm going to telephone Mr. Wilberforce in the morning. But this--this is for you, Mr. Ronnie. She said I was to give it to you as soon as I possibly could. She said I was to tell you that you were not to show it to anybody else until you had spoken to Mr. Wilberforce, Mr. James Wilberforce."

"Man," Aliette had risen; "what can it be?"

"It's a book." Ronnie spoke in a whisper. "The manuscript of a book. I wonder if she finished it."

"Yes. She finished it." The automaton handed her burden, to Ronnie, and disappeared.

"She"--Aliette moved away from the sofa where they had been sitting--"she said you weren't to show it to any one else."

"But that couldn't have included you."

"I'd rather not see--not yet." She was at the door now; and Ronnie, looking up at her--the parcel still in his hands--saw that she had gone very pale.

"Darling," he asked, "you're not ill, are you?"

"Ill?" She laughed--unsteadily--her fingers on the door-handle. "Ill? No, I'm not ill--only ... only----"

"But you are ill." He put the parcel down on the sofa and came across the room toward her. "Why, you're shaking all over."

She laughed again, hysterically. "I'm not. I'm not. I'm only tired. Worn out. I'm going to bed. Don't come up, Ronnie. Don't come up." And, kissing him, she ran from the room.

"Poor Alie," thought the man, "it's been too much for her."