One evening, about two weeks after West had left New York for Denver, Alice Pope, Edith’s sister, came down to the Roxborough for the purpose of spending the evening.

The two girls were very much alike in temperament and training and had always been great friends, confiding to each other most of the affairs of their rather uneventful existence. Alice was two years younger than Edith, and while not so handsome a woman, was the stronger nature of the two; as was evidenced by her somewhat more firmly molded chin, her lips, less full than Edith’s, and her gray eyes, which, set somewhat more closely together, gave to her face an expression of shrewdness and determination only relieved by her good-natured and rather large mouth.

She was not a frequent visitor at the Rogers’ apartment, at least in the evening, as she and Donald did not get along very well—they were good enough friends, but neither found the other very congenial. Alice thought Donald hard and unsympathetic, a feeling which arose largely from the tales of woe with which Edith so frequently regaled her. Donald, feeling this attitude of criticism, and too proud to attempt to controvert it, remained silent, which but convinced Alice the more of his lack of warmth and geniality. Thus the two preserved a sort of armed neutrality, the effect of which was to keep them forever at arm’s length.

Edith was in a state of extreme nervousness, and even the pretense of looking at a magazine hardly served to conceal the fact from Donald—he would inevitably have noticed it, had he not been busily occupied at his desk.

The cause of her nervousness reposed safely within the bosom of her dress. It was a letter from West which had come for her, three days before, and its contents had caused her the gravest concern. She felt glad that Alice was coming—glad that Donald had decided to go out for a stroll. She had been inwardly debating the advisability of taking her sister into her confidence, when the door-bell rang.

It was about eight o’clock, and Donald was just going out to post his letters.

“Hello, Sis!” said Alice, as she came in, then she nodded to Donald.

“Good-evening, Alice,” Edith replied. “Where’s mother? I thought she was coming with you.”

“She’ll be along presently.” The girl took off her long pony-skin coat and threw it carelessly upon the couch. “She stopped at Mrs. Harrison’s for a few minutes to return a book she had borrowed.” She shivered slightly. “Pretty cold, isn’t it? Never knew such a late spring.”

Edith turned to Donald, who was putting on his coat. “Get some quinine capsules, Donald—two grain. Bobbie’s cold is worse to-night.”

“Have you had the doctor?” inquired her husband.

“Oh, no, it isn’t as bad as that. Just a little fever.”

“Very well. I’ll be back presently.” He took up his hat and went out.

Edith, instead of joining her sister, began to walk aimlessly about the room. She had with difficulty concealed her agitation from Donald, and, now that he had gone, she still could not decide whether or not it would be wisdom on her part to confide in her sister. She felt the necessity of confiding in someone.

Alice presently observed the nervousness, and commented upon it in her usual frank way. “For heaven’s sake, Edith,” she remarked, “sit down. Don’t walk about like that. You make me nervous. What’s the matter with you, anyway?”

“Oh, nothing!” Edith threw herself dispiritedly into a chair, and, with an expression which bespoke an utter weariness of spirit, gazed moodily at her hands, roughened and red from the washing of dishes.

“Nothing?” said Alice, looking at her closely. “You look as though you had lost your last friend.”

“Perhaps I have.” The answer was significant, although to Alice it meant nothing.

“What do you mean by that?” she inquired. “I think you might try to be a little more agreeable. It wouldn’t hurt you any. If you are going to sit here and hand out chunks of gloom all the evening, I think I’ll go home.” It was characteristic of Alice to be determinedly cheerful on all occasions, a trait born not so much of any inherent optimism as of a dislike for being made uncomfortable.

Edith looked at her hesitatingly. “Don’t mind me, Alice,” she presently observed, in an apologetic voice, “I’m worried.”

“Do you suppose I can’t see that? You’ve been acting like an Ibsen play for the past three days. Why don’t you get it off your mind?” She hitched her chair about, and faced her sister with a curious look. “I’m safe enough. You ought to know that by this time. Come—out with it. What’s wrong? Let’s have the awful details.”

“It isn’t anything to joke about,” remarked Edith, not entirely relishing her sister’s tone.

“I’m not joking—not a bit of it. If you are in any trouble, Sis, you know you can count on me. I may be able to help you out; two heads are better than one, you know.”

With a sudden glance, Edith decided to take her sister into her confidence. Her question, quick and unexpected, aroused Alice to new interest. “Do you like Billy West?” she asked.

“Billy West? Of course I do. What’s he got to do with it?”

“Everything!”

Alice hitched her chair still closer, and looked at her sister in surprise. “You don’t mean to say—?” she began, then concluded her remark with a significant whistle.

“Alice,” said her sister, “you’ve known Billy for a long time. You know he is one of Donald’s best friends—”

“I always thought so. He must like one of you pretty well, judging by the amount of time he spends here.”

“You didn’t know, perhaps, that he was very much in love with me, years ago, before he went to Colorado.”

“I always suspected it. Pity you didn’t marry him. He made about half a million out there, didn’t he, in that gold mine?”

“I don’t know just what he made. That has nothing to do with it. Ever since he came back to New York to live, three months ago, I’ve seen a great deal of him—”

“I should say you had. If I hadn’t thought him such a good friend of Donald’s I’d have been suspicious long ago. I’ve envied you often enough, your auto rides, and luncheons at the Knickerbocker, and dinners, and theater parties. He doesn’t mind spending his money—that’s one thing sure, but I never thought—” She paused and looked at her sister with renewed interest. “Is he in love with you now?”

“Yes.” Edith spoke slowly—almost as though to herself. The thought was apparently not distasteful to her.

“You don’t say so! The plot thickens. So that’s why he’s been here morning, noon and night. Does Donald know?”

“Donald! Of course not.”

“Has Billy said anything?”

“Said anything? To whom?”

“To you, of course. Has he told you that he still loves you?”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t exactly fair of him.” Alice was a good deal of a Puritan at heart, and not at all lacking in frankness. “He ought not to have done it. I’m not so strong for Donald, goodness knows, but it strikes me as being pretty rough on him, just the same. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, and I told Billy so.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he had tried his best to keep from telling me, all these months. He went away, once, in April, you remember, and stayed nearly a month, to try to forget, but it didn’t do any good. He says he loves me more every day, and at last he had to tell me of it—he couldn’t keep from it any longer.”

“Well, what good has it done? He has sense enough to see that it’s perfectly hopeless, hasn’t he?”

“No, that’s the worst of it.”

Alice sat back in her chair in alarm. “Good heavens, Edith,” she gasped, “you must be losing your mind.”

“Why?”

“It isn’t possible you are thinking of—” She paused and left her sentence incomplete, gazing intently at her sister. “Do you care for him?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think I do. You know what my life has been here. You know what it is going to be, for years. I suppose you will think me very disloyal and wicked, but, when a woman’s whole existence is made up, year after year, of wishing for all the things that make life worth while, and never, never being able to afford them, her love for her husband seems somehow to become dried up, and unimportant.”

“Hm-m—I suppose it does. I’ve never yet got to the point, myself, where I can really enjoy making over my last season’s clothes. I try to think they look as good as new, but they never do. I’m afraid I haven’t enough imagination. But all that doesn’t make any difference now. You’re married to Donald, and you’ve got to make the best of it. What a pity you didn’t choose Billy! Half a million—hm-m—it sounds like heaven to me. I wonder if he wouldn’t like me as a second choice,” she rattled on. “We certainly ought to try to keep that money in the family, somehow.”

“Alice, don’t talk such nonsense. It isn’t Billy’s money I’m thinking of.”

“If you can persuade yourself that that’s true,” said her sister grimly, “you really must be in love with him. But what’s the use of talking about it? It’s absurd.”

Edith stood up and walked nervously over to the desk, where she began idly fumbling with the papers upon it. Presently she turned to her sister who was regarding her with an inquiring look.

“He—he wants me to leave Donald,” she cried, in a half-frightened way.

“No! What a nerve!” Alice seemed to regard the whole affair as a huge joke.

“He says that I am wearing myself out,” continued her sister, “that I am wasting all the youth, and sweetness and joy of life, grinding on here in this hopeless situation. He says that, if Donald really loved me, he would see that, too.”

“It sounds like the latest best seller. The hero always says that to the neglected wife, doesn’t he?”

“If you are going to make fun of me,” remarked Edith with a show of anger, “I think we had better drop the subject.”

Alice got up and went over to her sister. “Oh, come now, Edith,” she said kindly, “don’t get so grouchy. I don’t see anything so tragic in all this. Suppose Billy does love you—what does he propose to do about it—run away with you?”

“Yes.” Her sister’s quiet tones had a ring of earnestness to them, of finality almost, that was alarming.

“The idea! Billy West of all people! I can’t believe it. I suppose you indignantly refused.”

“No, I didn’t. He told me how lonely he was; how bad it all made him feel; how it seemed so disloyal to Donald, but he—he couldn’t help it. He said I was everything in the world to him—that he had never loved any other woman, and never would—”

“Oh, I can imagine what he said,” interrupted Alice. “That’s easy. The question is, what did you say?”

Edith looked at her in a frightened way, seemingly for a moment unwilling to meet her glance. “Alice,” she said, slowly and very softly, “I—I told him I would go.”

“Edith, you really can’t mean it.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Rogers, nodding her head slowly. “Yes. That was over two weeks ago. We had gone down to Garden City in the auto, and had luncheon there. It was a wonderful day—so clear, and bright and beautiful. I had had a row with Donald, the night before. It was about going away this summer. When I met Billy the next day, everything seemed so different. He was telling me about a wonderful trip he was planning, to India, and the East. We talked it over like two children, and then all of a sudden he said he wouldn’t—he couldn’t go, unless I went, too—”

“It sounds fine.” Alice’s voice was not approving. “But what about Bobbie?”

Her sister passed her hand over her forehead and shivered slightly, glancing as she did so at the door of the adjoining bedroom. “Can’t you see that is why I cannot do it?” she cried with bitterness.

“Oh—you aren’t going to, then!” exclaimed Alice in a tone of relief. “I thought you said you had agreed to go.”

“I did. I must have been mad. I didn’t think of Bobbie, or of Donald, or anything, except that Billy and I loved each other, and were going away together, to be happier than I had ever dreamed of being in all my life. It all seemed so wonderful—almost like being born over again and living a new existence in a new and happier world. Then when I got home—” She hesitated, and a look of pain crossed her face.

“You weakened on the proposition, of course. That’s the effect of habit. It’s a wonderful thing how it keeps us in the straight and narrow path. I once heard a divorced woman say that it took her over a year to get out of the habit of being married to her first husband. What did Billy say when you told him you had changed your mind? I’ll bet he was furious.”

Again Mrs. Rogers seemed unable to meet her sister’s keen gaze. “I haven’t told him,” she exclaimed, her voice little more than a whisper.

“Good heavens! Why not?”

“Because he had gone away. He went to Denver that same night. Didn’t you know?”

“Now that you mention it, I believe I did hear you say that he was out of town. I thought it strange I hadn’t seen anything of him, lately. What did he go to Denver for? I must say, it seems rather inconsiderate of him, under the circumstances.”

“He went to Denver, Alice, because his property is there. He intends to sell out his interest in the mine, and close up his affairs so that we can go away together, don’t you see? He said he was going to dispose of everything he had, and put all the money in bonds, so that he would be free to go away, and stay away the rest of his life, if he felt like it.”

“Well, I must say,” cried her sister, “he seems to be in earnest, at any rate, even if you are not.”

“Alice, Billy West loves me as truly and deeply as any woman was ever loved.”

“Then it seems to me that you are treating his love pretty shabbily. Why don’t you tell him the truth?”

“It wasn’t until after he had gone away that I began to realize what a terrific mistake it would all be—that I would probably ruin his life as well as my own. I ought to have written him at once, and told him I couldn’t do what I had agreed.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I was weak. I hadn’t the courage. Every day I put it off till the next.”

“Well, it isn’t too late yet, is it? If I were you, I would sit right down and write him a letter.”

Edith flung herself despairingly into a chair. “I don’t know whether it is too late or not,” she wailed. “That’s what is worrying me so. I haven’t slept for three nights—ever since I got his last letter.”

Alice went over to her sister’s chair, and put her arm about her shoulder. “Look here, Edith,” she said, her tone showing plainly her anxiety—“what’s all this about, anyway? You seem to be terribly upset. I can’t make head or tail of the matter. What’s worrying you so?”

“Three days ago,” said Edith, with quivering lips, “I got a letter from him. He’d been writing me every day up to then. That letter told me that he had appendicitis, and had gone to a hospital in Denver to be operated on. It was written last Thursday—that’s six days ago. Since then, I haven’t heard a single word.”

Alice appeared greatly relieved. “Is that all?” she cried. “I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. When anyone is lying flat on his back in a hospital, he doesn’t feel much like writing letters. Appendicitis isn’t very dangerous. I’ve known any number of people that have had it.”

“I know, but I can’t help worrying. I don’t know what to do.”

“I should think the first thing you would do would be to sit down and write him that letter.”

“I don’t dare to.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Suppose something has happened to him. How can I know who might get the letter? I don’t dare to write the things I’ve got to say to him.”

Alice considered a moment. “No, I don’t suppose you’d better. I didn’t think of that. Can’t you find out, some way, how he is?”

“I don’t know a soul in Denver.”

Her sister paused for a moment, thinking deeply. “What is to-day, Edith?” she suddenly inquired—“The twentieth?”

“Yes, I believe so. Why?”

“Then Emerson Hall got to Denver last night. He wrote me from St. Louis that he was going there this week, and would arrive the night of the nineteenth. He expects to be there several weeks. I might ask him.”

“Will you?” Mrs. Rogers looked at her eagerly. “I must find out somehow. It seems terrible, not to write to him, now that he is so sick. I—I care a lot for him, Alice, even if I have decided not to run away with him. Do you think Mr. Hall will do it for you?”

“Who, Emerson? Of course he will. He’d do anything for me. And, besides, I think he knows Billy slightly. They’re both Columbia men, you know.”

“Send him a wire. Ask him to go to the hospital at once and find out how Billy is. I’ve got to know.”

“All right,” said Alice, as she made her way to the desk. “Got a blank?”

“I think there are some here.” Edith accompanied her sister to the desk. “Here’s one.” She handed Alice the blank.

“What shall I say?” asked Alice, as she seated herself at the desk.

“Just ask him to go to the City Hospital and inquire for William West. I’ll get the elevator boy to take it.” She stepped out into the hall and pressed the electric button. “How much is it for ten words—do you know?” she asked as she re-entered the room.

“Haven’t the least idea,” said her sister as she handed her the message she had written.

Edith glanced at it, took a dollar bill from her purse, and gave it and the message to the elevator boy who had answered her ring. “You’ll probably get the answer in the morning, Alice.” She turned to her sister as she closed the door. “You’ll bring it right down to me, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And not a word to Donald—that goes without saying. I wouldn’t have him know for anything.”

“All right. Billy is probably all right by this time, anyhow. As soon as you know that he is, I advise you to sit down and write him a nice, sensible letter—tell him you have reconsidered, and all that. You certainly owe it to him.”

“I will, Alice. I ought to have done it long ago. There’s the bell,” she added, wearily. “It’s probably mother.”