she married the winner in the race, though a better and a braver man was dead for her sake. She was like many another woman before and since her time. One wonders a little if she ever realized in after days that Meleager was a prince among men, and that the gold of his true heart was less mixed with dross than the gold of the apple of Hesperides. She had both in her hands. Did she ever dream in the still night-watches that she had thrown away the gold and kept the dross? Qui sait? Here comes your visitor,—Milanion himself, upon my word! I must take my own leave, as no one seems to care to take leave of me."
Robert Feuardent had entered the studio, and stood looking at Margaret with eyes that could see nothing but her. Without noticing her friend, who had slipped from the room, Margaret came to meet her guest with a few stereotyped words of welcome on her lips.
"Mr. Feuardent, I am so glad to see you so well—so much better. It 's a long time since we have met, is it not?"
"A lifetime, Atalanta."
She was trembling all over, and her hands had grown suddenly perfectly cold. Robert, in whose mind there could not fail to be a memory of that morning when he had last entered the studio, full of health and hope and love, only to
