But in the
sunshine he saw the shadow; the daylight foretold the night; his eyes
saw the withered petals of the rose strewn before him. In vain he had
striven to see beyond the night to the as inevitable to-morrow; in
vain he had pictured the rose which his careful hand would bring to
replace her dead sister. The future was a blank dead wall whose
heights his foresight could not scale.
Before him on the table lay a closed and sealed envelope. It contained
his will, which half an hour before he had signed in the presence of
two comrades. He wondered what the world would say when it was
opened--and when it would be opened.
Presently the curtains behind him were pushed quietly on one side. He
did not turn around. He supposed it was his native servant with the
cup of coffee which formed his early morning refreshment; but the soft
step across the uncarpeted floor, the rustle of a woman's dress
startled him from his illusion. He turned and sprang to his feet.
"Beatrice!" he exclaimed.
She came toward him with outstretched hand.
"May I speak with you for a few minutes, John?" she asked.
His first impulse to protest against her reckless disregard of
propriety died away on his lips. Something on her white earnest face
touched him--all the more perhaps because it linked itself with his
own mood. He brought a chair--his own, for the room boasted of but
one.
"Are you angry?" she asked again, looking up at him.
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