’ At this, the fellow Valade burst into unwise speech. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. “You may call anytime. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. “He was alive at four o’clock this afternoon,” she answered, “but the doctors give little hope of his recovery. Earles thinks I am a little mad, and between ourselves I am not sure about it myself. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation.
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