On a warm morning, toward the middle of June, Frederic and Lydia sat in the quaint, old-world courtyard, almost directly beneath the balcony of Yvonne's boudoir. He lounged comfortably, yet weakly, in the invalid-chair that had been wheeled to the spot by Ranjab, and she sat on a pile of cushions at his feet.

Looking at him, one would not have thought that he had passed through the valley of the shadow of death and was but now emerging into the sunshine of security. His face was pale, but there was a healthy gloss to the skin and a clear light in the eye.

For a week or more he had been permitted to walk about the house and into the garden, always leaning on the arm of his father or the faithful Hindu. Each succeeding day saw his strength and vitality increase, and each night he slept with the peace of a care-free child. He was filled with contentment; he loved life as he had never dreamed it would be possible for him to love it. There was a song in his heart and there was a bright star always on the edge of his horizon.

As for Lydia, she was radiant with happiness. The long fight was over. She had gone through the campaign against death with loyal, unfaltering courage; there had never been an instant when her staunch heart had failed her; there had been distress, but never despair. If the strain told on her it did not matter, for she was of the fighting kind. Her love was the sustenance on which she throve, despite the beggarly offerings that were laid before her during those weeks of famine. Her strong, young body lost none of its vigour; her splendid spirit gloried in the tests to which it was subjected, and now she was as serene as the June day that found her wistfully contemplating the results of victory.

Times there were when a pensive mood brought the touch of sadness to her grateful heart. She was happy and Frederic was happy, but what of the one who actually had wrought the miracle? That one alone was unhappy, unrequited, undefended. There was no place for her in the new order of things. When Lydia thought of her, as she often did, it was with an indescribable craving in her soul. She longed for the hour to come when Yvonne Brood would lay aside the mask of resignation and demand tribute; when the strange defiance that held all of them at bay would disappear, and they could feel that she no longer regarded them as adversaries.

There was no longer a symptom of rancour in the heart of Lydia Desmond. She realised that her beloved's recovery was due almost entirely to the remarkable influence exercised by this woman at a time when mortal agencies appeared to be of no avail. Her absolute certainty that she had the power to thwart death, at least in this instance, had its effect not only on the wounded man, but on those who attended him.

Dr Hodder and the nurses were not slow to admit that her magnificent courage, her almost scornful self-assurance, supplied them with an incentive that otherwise might never have got beyond the form of a mere hope. There was something positively startling in her serene conviction that Frederic was not to die. No less a sceptic than the renowned Dr Hodder confided to Lydia and her mother that he now believed in the supernatural and never again would say “there is no God.”

Hodder had gone to James Brood at the end of the third day and, with the sweat of the haunted on his brow, had whispered hoarsely that the case was out of his hands. He was no longer the doctor, but an agent governed by a spirit that would not permit death to claim its own. And somehow Brood understood far better than the man of science.

The true story of the shooting had long been known to Lydia and her mother. Brood confessed everything to them. He assumed all of the blame for what had transpired on that tragic morning. He humbled himself before them, and when they shook their heads and turned their backs upon him he was not surprised, for he knew they were not convicting him of assault with a deadly firearm. Later on the story of ThÉrÈse was told by him to Frederic and the girl. He did his wife no injustice in the recital.

Frederic laid his hand upon the soft brown head at his knee and voiced the thought that was in his mind.

“You are wondering, as I am, too, what is to become of Yvonne after to-day,” he said. “There must be an end, and if it doesn't come now, when will it come? To-morrow we sail. It is certain that she is not to accompany us. She has said so herself, and father has said so. So to-day must see the end of things.”

“Frederic, I want you to do something for me,” said Lydia earnestly. “There was a time when I could not have asked this of you, but now I implore you to speak to your father in her behalf. I love her, Freddy dear. I cannot help it. She asks nothing of any of us; she expects nothing, and yet she loves all of us. If he only would unbend toward her a little———”

“Listen, Lyddy dear. I don't believe it's altogether up to him. There is a barrier that we can't see, but they do, both of them. My mother stands between them. You see, I've come to know my father lately, dear. He's not a stranger to me any longer. I know what sort of a heart he's got. He never got over loving my mother, and he'll never get over knowing that Yvonne knows that she loved him to the day she died.

“We know what it was in Yvonne that attracted him from the first, and she knows. He's not likely to forgive himself so easily. He didn't play fair with either of them, that's what I'm trying to get at. I don't believe he can forgive himself any more than he can forgive Yvonne for the thing she set about to do.

“You see, Lyddy, she married him without love. She debased herself, even though she can't admit it even now. I love her, too. She's the most wonderful woman in the world. But she did give herself to the man she hated with all her soul and—well, there you are. He can't forget that, you know, and she can't. She loves him for herself now, and that's what hurts both of them. It hurts because they both know that he still loves my mother.”

“She's his wife, however,” said Lydia, with a stubborn pursing of the lips. “She didn't wrong him, and, after all, she's only guilty of—well, she isn't guilty of anything except being a sister of the girl he wronged.”

“I'll have a talk with him if you think best,” said he, an eager gleam in his eyes.

“And I with Yvonne,” she said quickly. “You see, it's possible she is the one to be persuaded.”

“Of course, you've observed that they never see one another alone,” said he. “They never meet except when someone else is about. He rather resents the high-handed way in which she ordered him to stay away from me until I was safely out of danger. He says she saved my life. He says she performed a miracle. But he has never uttered a word of thanks or gratitude or appreciation to her. I'm sure of that, for she has told me so. And she is satisfied to go without his thanks.”

“I see what you mean,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose we just can't understand things.”

“You've no idea how beautiful you are to-day, Lyddy,” he cried suddenly, and she looked up into his glowing eyes with a smile of ineffable happiness. Her hand found his, and her warm, red lips were pressed to its palm in a hot, impassioned kiss. “It's great to be alive! Great!”

“Oh, it is,” she cried, “it is!”

They might better have said that it is great to be young, for that is what it all came to in the analysis.

Later on Brood joined them in the courtyard. He stood, with his hand on his son's shoulder, chatting carelessly about the coming voyage, all the while smiling upon the radiant girl to whom he was promising paradise. She adored the gentle, kindly gleam in those one-time steady, steel-like eyes. His voice, too, of late was pitched in a softer key, and there was the ring of happiness in its every note. It was as if he had discovered something in life that was constantly surprising and pleasing him. He seemed always to be venturing into fresh fields of exploration and finding there something that was of inestimable value to his new estate.

Lydia left father and son after a few minutes, excusing herself on the ground that she wished to have a good, long chat with Yvonne. She did not delay her departure, but hurried into the house, having rather adroitly provided Frederic with an opening for an intercession in behalf of his lovely stepmother. Her meaning glance was not wasted on the young man.

He lost no time in following up the advantage.

“See here, father, I don't like the idea of leaving Yvonne out in the cold, so to speak. It's pretty darned rough, don't you think? Down in your heart you don't blame her for what she started out to do, and, after all, she's only human. Whatever happened in the past we—well, it's all in the past. She———”

Brood stopped him with a gesture.

“My son, I will try to explain something to you. You may be able to understand things better than I. I fell in love with her once because an influence that was not her own overpowered me. There was something of your mother in her. She admits that to be true, and I now believe it. Well, that something, whatever it was, is gone. She is not the same. Yvonne is ThÉrÈse. She is not the woman I loved two months ago.”

“Nor am I the boy you hated two months ago,” argued Frederic. “Isn't there a parallel to be seen there, father? I am your son. She is your wife. You———”

“There was never a time when I really hated you, my son. I tried to, but that is all over. We will not rake up the ashes. As for my wife—well, I have tried to hate her. It is impossible for me to do so. She is a wonderful woman. But you must understand, on the other hand, that I do not love her. I did when she looked at me with your mother's eyes and spoke to me with your mother's lips. But she is not the same.”

“Give yourself a chance, dad. You will come to love her for herself if only you will let go of yourself. You are trying to be hard. You———”

Again Brood interrupted. His face was pale, his eyes grew dark with pain.

“You don't know what you are saying, Frederic. Let us discontinue the subject.”

“I want you to be happy, I want———”

“I shall be happy. I am happy. Have I not found out the truth? Are you not my beloved son? Are———”

“And who convinced you of all that, sir? Who is responsible for your present happiness, and mine?”

“I know, I know!” exclaimed the father in some agitation.

“You'll regret it all your life if you fail her now, dad. Why, hang it all, you're not an old man! You are less than fifty. Your heart hasn't dried up yet. Your blood is still hot. And she is glorious. Give yourself a chance. You know that she's one woman in a million, and she's yours! She has made you happy, she can make you still happier.”

“No, I am not old. I am far younger than I was fifteen years ago. That's what I am afraid of—this youth I really never possessed till now. If I gave way to it now I'd—well, I would be like putty in her hands. She could go on laughing at me, trifling with me, fooling me to———”

“She wouldn't do that!” exclaimed his son hotly.

“I don't blame you for defending her. It's right that you should. You are forgetting the one important condition, however. She can never reconcile herself to the position you would put her in if I permitted you to persuade me that———”

“I can tell you one thing, father, that you ought to know, if you are so blind that you haven't discovered it for yourself. She loves you.”

“You are very young, my boy.” Brood shook his head and smiled faintly.

“What's to become of her? You are leaving her without a thought for her future. You———”

“I fancy she is quite capable of arranging her future. As a matter of fact, she had arranged it pretty definitely before this thing happened. Leave it to her, Frederic. It is impossible for me to take her away with us. It is not to be considered.”

“All right, but bear this in mind: Lydia loves Yvonne, and she's heart-broken. Now we'll talk about her, if you like.”

Lydia had as little success in her rather more tactful interview with Yvonne.

“Thank you, dear, I am satisfied,” said she. “Everything has turned out as it should. The wicked enchantress has been foiled and virtue triumphs. Don't be unhappy on my account, Lydia. It will not be easy to say good-bye to you and Frederic, but—lÀ! lÀ! What are we to do? Now please don't speak of it again. Hearts are easily mended. Look at my husband—aÏe! He has had his heart made over from top to bottom—in a rough crucible, it's true, but it's as good as new, you'll admit. In a way, I am made over, too. I am happier than I've ever been in my life. I'm in love with my husband, I'm in love with you and Frederic, and I am more than ever in love with myself. So there! Don't feel sorry for me. I shall have the supreme joy of knowing that not one of you will ever forget me or my deeds, good and bad. Who knows? I am still young, you know. Time has the chance to be very kind to me before I die.”

That last observation lingered in Lydia's mind.

But despite her careless treatment of the situation, Yvonne awaited with secret dread the coming of that hour when James Brood would say goodbye to her and, instead of turning her away from his house, would go out of it himself without a single command to her. He would not tell her that it was no longer her home, nor would he tell her that it was.