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S the door closed upon Percy after that tragic interview, Dolores stood and listened to his departing footsteps, until the last echo died away.

Then she flung herself down among the objects which were all associated with their happy hours of love and companionship, while dry despairing sobs shook her frail form.

"Oh, Christ, pity me! my life is all in ruins, all in ruins!" she moaned, "Father—Mother—God, why did you curse me with the existence I never desired?"

After a time, she rose up and tried to set her apartment in order. Every where she turned her eyes, they were greeted with some reminder of her life with Percy. Here was a souvenir of the happy bohemian days, in Paris. There a momento of that fatal ice-boat journey. Fatal, because she believed it was during that dangerous experience that Mrs. Butler contracted the illness which resulted in her death; and because on that day, Percy really passed from the position of friend to lover. Then, as she opened a book, trying to divert her tortured mind from these memories, out dropped a pressed fern, gathered in the Andean valley. She covered her face with her hands; she seemed to see again the fading glory of that wonderful sunset, the towering steeples of granite, and again she could hear the saucy Ta-ha-ha of the arajojo bird.

It was more than she could bear. She rose hurriedly, and walked across the room, weeping silently.

Suddenly her eyes fell upon the old faded photograph, which Percy had dropped beside the chair he occupied. She picked it up and gazed upon it with passionate fury, distorting her beautiful face.

"Curse you, curse you!" she almost shrieked, and tearing the card in a thousand fragments, she trampled them under her feet, and fell in a dead swoon upon the floor beside them.

It was dark when she returned to consciousness. She groped her way toward her couch, and, throwing herself upon it, fell into a troubled sleep, which lasted until the entrance of Lorette the following day.

She awoke to renewed suffering, and spent wretched hours in forming a thousand futile plans of revenge. Scarcely having tasted food since Percy's departure, she felt her strength leaving her. And with her strength, went her anger, resentment and pride. During the long sleepless night, of the second day, the desire to see Percy again overmastered every other feeling. The intensity of her love seemed to increase, as her physical vigor lessened. The knowledge that, no matter how she destroyed his happiness, or ruined his hopes in life, she must still love him, and live without him, bore down upon her heart like a burning weight, and put to flight all desire for revenge. The one thing, the only thing which made the future worth living, was a reconciliation with Percy.

She rose and sat by her window in the chill, gray dawn.

"He must come back to me, he must," she whispered, "at any cost! I have given up the whole world for his love, for his companionship. Even if his love has been given to another, he must still give me his companionship. I will see him—I will send for him to-day, and tell him so."

A strange idea had presented itself to her feverish, suffering heart. An idea born of her wild love and her crushed and ruined pride. In the silent watches of the night, the thought had come to her, that even if Percy made Helena his wife, he might still give her (his comrade, his long-time confidant and friend)—his occasional affectionate companionship. If she submitted quietly and passively to his marriage, he might not wholly cast her off. She believed that society was full of men, respectable citizens in the eyes of the world—who retained their intimate lady friends after marriage. And she knew that the United States Government permitted a large and increasing colony to exist, where men retained any number of wives.

Surely, if any woman on earth had the right to be so retained, it was she. And Percy would see it so—and he would not cast her off. She could scarcely wait for the day to advance, to send for him and lay the plan before him.

She had not the faintest comprehension of the mighty magnitude or the exalted nature of the love which had sprung to life in Percy's heart for Helena. She believed it to be the passing fancy of the hour—a sudden passion of the senses. She remembered the subtle magnetism which Helena possessed in days of old—a peculiar power of drawing people to her—of attracting them and winning their confidence with no seeming effort of her own. She remembered how popular she was in Madame Scranton's Academy—and in those days she had believed it to be the mesmerism of her eyes, that won the hearts of her companions. Percy was, no doubt, affected by this mysterious influence which fascinated every one who lingered long in Helena's presence. But it would pass away—and his love for her, his ideal mate and comrade, would burn again with greater lustre, if she waited patiently.

She wrote a note, full of humility, begging his forgiveness for her conduct during their last interview, and asking him to grant her a few moments' conversation during the day. She sent for a messenger to carry the note, and then she dismissed Lorette for the day and began to prepare herself for the expected guest.

Lorette took her departure reluctantly. "Madame is not herself; Madame is ill, and needs looking after!" she muttered, as she went out, and many times during the day and in succeeding days and weeks, her light volatile French spirits were shadowed by the recollection of her mistress's face, as she last saw it.

Dolores was one of the few women who can be beautiful even when suffering mental and physical pain. As a rule, happiness and health are necessary cosmetics to beauty; but hers was a face that even much weeping, and sleepless nights of torturing pain could not disfigure.

She robed herself all in white, as Percy best loved to see her. She wore his favorite jewels, and a bright knot of ribbon he had once admired, at her throat. Suddenly, in the midst of her preparation, she paused. The full consciousness of her humiliating position dawned upon her with startling force.

"My God! how low I have fallen!" she sobbed, and yet she did not draw back from the resolution she had formed, to throw herself upon the pity of the man she loved.

She had been Queen of the feast; and now she was about to beg for crumbs from the table presided over by another.

The hours lagged by on leaden wings. Why did not the messenger return?

It was late in the afternoon when he made his appearance. He was out of breath from running up the flight of stairs, and he handed her back—her own note.

"Could you not find the gentleman? I told you to leave the note if he was not in!" she said sharply, so keen was her disappointment.

"Yes'm, I know you did," the boy answered, "but there was people there, and a doctor. And the doctor he came to the door, and he said as the gentleman mustn't be disturbed—he was sick, and goin' to die before mornin', perhaps. And I felt scared like, and come off without leaving the letter."

The boy turned away, and Dolores closed the door upon him, quickly, as if to shut out his evil message with him.

Sick, dying! and who were the people with him? who had the right to be with him and minister to his needs, save herself? It was her place—hers only. She must go to him—she must save him by the strength of her love.

She did not wait to make any change in her attire. She seized the nearest garment at hand—a soft white shawl, and a hat with nodding white plumes, and hurried forth.

When she reached the building in which Percy's apartments were situated, she met the physician just emerging from the street door. She forced a calm exterior as she addressed him.

"I came to ask after your patient," she said. "Is it true that he is not expected to live?"

He looked at her sharply. Her white attire, her beauty and her pallor made her a remarkable picture as she stood there in the gathering dusk.

"Are you a relative of his?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, only a friend; one to whom he has been very kind," she answered. "But I want you to tell me the truth. Will he die?"

"I fear he will," the old physician answered, gravely. "There is small chance that he can live through the night. If he lives, it will be a miracle." Then he passed on.

She glided through the entrance he had left open, and hurried up the flight of stairs that led to his rooms. The door stood ajar upon the landing. She pushed it open and entered; no one was visible in the outer room which served as a parlor. At one side, in a sort of study, sat a gentleman and lady engaged in low conversation; but they did not hear her light footsteps as she walked across the yielding carpet, and stood between the velvet portieres which curtained his sleeping-room.

Through the colored globe the gas-light shone with subdued lustre, filling the apartment with the mellow halo of an autumn sunset.

Propped up on pillows lay Percy, while above him leaned the shapely figure of a woman clothed all in black; her dusky hair and brunette face showing in marked contrast to the blond locks and marble pallor of the patient.

Her hand was making light soothing passes across his brow; her eyes were full of unutterable love and sorrow. Gently she drooped over his pillow and pressed a light kiss upon his closed lids, as she murmured—"My love—my husband."

Dolores drew a deep, gasping breath, like one who has been struck suddenly by an unseen foe.

Helena heard the sound, and turned a startled glance in the direction from which it came.

Standing between the velvet curtains, she saw the motionless figure of Dolores, majestic in her beauty, her white garments and her golden hair clearly defined against the crimson background of the draperies.

Just for one breathless, pained second the two women who had been schoolmates and dear friends, looked into each other's eyes again. Then, as Helena made a movement toward her, Dolores turned her glance upon Percy—a strange, radiant, triumphant smile illuminating her face—and vanished as suddenly as she had appeared.

As she made her way through the city streets, many turned to look upon the white-robed figure, and the strangely-beautiful smiling face under the nodding plumes of her hat. But no man dared speak to her. There was something in her face that awed them, and protected her from insult.

She was still smiling when she entered her own apartment again. Carefully laying aside her wraps, she proceeded to set the room in perfect order. Then she brought out a little ebony box, in which she kept many curious souvenirs of her life abroad. In one corner lay a small chamois-skin bag. She opened it, and into a corner of a snowy cambric handkerchief, she shook a portion of its contents—a brilliant, crystallized substance—and then replaced the bag and locked the ebony box away in her cabinet again.

Laying the handkerchief on the pillow of her couch, she disrobed, brushed out her beautiful hair, and leaving the gas jet turned low, she crept into her snowy bed. Bringing the handkerchief close to her face, she looked smilingly down on the tiny crystals of the powder, as she murmured, "If only Madame Volkenburg was not mistaken—if only it is swift and sure, as she said! Oh Love, Love! even in death we shall not be parted. She will mourn over your cold clay; but your spirit will be with me, with me! You would have lived for her, but I die for you. Ah, God! how much sweeter death is, than life. Oh, my Love, my Love, you shall not take the journey alone! Whatever the great mystery is, we will solve it—together. May Christ receive our spirits."

She emptied the powder into her sweetly-parted lips, folded the handkerchief under her cheek, and lay quite still, as if she slept.

When Lorette came in the morning, she found her lying in the same position, the handkerchief under her cheek, and a sweet, glad smile upon her dead face.

The papers, on the following day, reported the sudden death, by heart disease, of beautiful Madame Percy, a young French lady.