At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life. "One of us has got to die," he panted. So he shut his eyes. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. . And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account.
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