Ailsa Paige. Robert W. Chambers

seated at his study table before the open box, he heard Larraway knock; and he quietly laid away the miniature of Berkley's mother which had been lying in his steady palm for hours.

      "Well?"

      "Pardon. Mr. Berkley's key, with Mr. Berkley's compliments, sir."

       And he laid it upon the table by the box.

      "Thank you. That will be all."

      "Thank you, sir. Good night, sir."

      "Good night."

      The Colonel picked up the evening paper and opened it mechanically:

      "By telegraph!" he read, "War inevitable. Postscript! Fort Sumter! It is now certain that the Government has decided to reinforce Major Andersen's command at all hazards——"

      The lines in the Evening Post blurred under his eyes; he passed one broad, bony hand across them, straightened his shoulders, and, setting the unlighted cigar firmly between his teeth, composed himself to read. But after a few minutes he had read enough. He dropped deeper into his arm-chair, groping for the miniature of Berkley's mother.

      As for Berkley, he was at last alone with his letters and his keepsakes, in the lodgings which he inhabited—and now would inhabit no more. The letters lay still unopened before him on his writing table; he stood looking at the miniatures and photographs, all portraits of his mother, from girlhood onward.

      One by one he took them up, examined them—touched them to his lips, laid each away. The letters he also laid away unopened; he could not bear to read them now.

      The French clock in his bedroom struck eight. He closed and locked his desk, stood looking at it blankly for a moment; then he squared his shoulders. An envelope lay open on the desk beside him.

      "Oh—yes," he said aloud, but scarcely heard his own voice.

      The envelope enclosed an invitation from one, Camilla Lent, to a theatre party for that evening, and a dance afterward.

      He had a vague idea that he had accepted.

      The play was "The Seven Sisters" at Laura, Keene's Theatre. The dance was somewhere—probably at Delmonico's. If he were going, it was time he was afoot.

      His eyes wandered from one familiar object to another; he moved restlessly, and began to roam through the richly furnished rooms. But to Berkley nothing in the world seemed familiar any longer; and the strangeness of it, and the solitude were stupefying him.

      When he became tired trying to think, he made the tour again in a stupid sort of way, then rang for his servant, Burgess, and started mechanically about his dressing.

      Nothing any longer seemed real, not even pain.

      He rang for Burgess again, but the fellow did not appear. So he dressed without aid. And at last he was ready; and went out, drunk with fatigue and the reaction from pain.

      He did not afterward remember how he came to the theatre. Presently he found himself in a lower tier box, talking to a Mrs. Paige who, curiously, miraculously, resembled the girlish portraits of his mother—or he imagined so—until he noticed that her hair was yellow and her eyes blue. And he laughed crazily to himself, inwardly convulsed; and then his own voice sounded again, low, humorous, caressingly modulated; and he listened to it, amused that he was able to speak at all.

      "And so you are the wonderful Ailsa Paige," he heard himself repeating. "Camilla wrote me that I must beware of my peace of mind the moment I first set eyes on you——"

      "Camilla Lent is supremely silly, Mr. Berkley——"

      "Camilla is a sibyl. This night my peace of mind departed for ever."

      "May I offer you a little of mine?"

      "I may ask more than that of you?"

      "You mean a dance?"

      "More than one."

      "How many?"

      "All of them. How many will you give me?"

      "One. Please look at the stage. Isn't Laura Keene bewitching?"

      "Your voice is."

      "Such nonsense. Besides, I'd rather hear what Laura Keene is saying than listen to you."

      "Do you mean it?"

      "Incredible as it may sound, Mr. Berkley, I really do."

      He dropped back in the box. Camilla laid her painted fan across his arm.

      "Isn't Ailsa Paige the most enchanting creature you ever saw? I told you so! Isn't she?"

      "Except one. I was looking at some pictures of her a half an hour ago."

      "She must be very beautiful," sighed Camilla.

      "She was."

      "Oh. … Is she dead?"

      "Murdered."

      Camilla looked at the stage in horrified silence. Later she touched him again on the arm, timidly.

      "Are you not well, Mr. Berkley?"

      "Perfectly. Why?"

      "You are so pale. Do look at Ailsa Paige. I am completely enamoured of her. Did you ever see such a lovely creature in all your life? And she is very young but very wise. She knows useful and charitable things—like nursing the sick, and dressing injuries, and her own hats. And she actually served a whole year in the horrible city hospital! Wasn't it brave of her!"

      Berkley swayed forward to look at Ailsa Paige. He began to be tormented again by the feverish idea that she resembled the girl pictures of his mother. Nor could he rid himself of the fantastic impression. In the growing unreality of it all, in the distorted outlines of a world gone topsy-turvy, amid the deadly blurr of things material and mental, Ailsa Paige's face alone remained strangely clear. And, scarcely knowing what he was saying, he leaned forward to her shoulder again.

      "There was only one other like you," he said. Mrs. Paige turned slowly and looked at him, but the quiet rebuke in her eyes remained unuttered.

      "Be more genuine with me," she said gently. "I am worth it, Mr.

       Berkley."

      Then, suddenly there seemed to run a pale flash through his brain,

      "Yes," he said in an altered voice, "you are worth it. … Don't drive me away from you just yet."

      "Drive you away?" in soft concern. "I did not mean——"

      "You will, some day. But don't do it to-night." Then the quick, feverish smile broke out.

      "Do you need a servant? I'm out of a place. I can either cook, clean silver, open the door, wash sidewalks, or wait on the table; so you see I have every qualification."

      Smilingly perplexed, she let her eyes rest on his pallid face for a moment, then turned toward the stage again.

      The "Seven Sisters" pursued its spectacular course; Ione Burke, Polly Marshall, and Mrs. Vining were in the cast; tableau succeeded tableau; "I wish I were in Dixie," was sung, and the popular burlesque ended in the celebrated scene, "The Birth of the Butterfly in the Bower of Ferns," with the entire company kissing their finger-tips to a vociferous and satiated audience.

      Then it was supper at Delmonico's, and a dance—and at last the waltz promised him by Ailsa Paige.

      Through the fixed unreality of things he saw her clearly, standing, awaiting him, saw her sensitive face as she quietly laid her hand on his—saw it suddenly alter as the light contact startled both.

      Flushed, she looked up at him like a hurt child, conscious yet only of the surprise.

      Dazed, he stared back. Neither spoke; his arm encircled her; both seemed aware of that; then only of the swaying rhythm of the dance, and of joined hands, and her waist imprisoned. Only the fragrance of her hair seemed