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"The dead are glad in heaven, the living 'tis who weep."--K. Y. HINKSON.

Philippa followed Isabella down-stairs like one walking in her sleep, without feeling, without consciousness, save of a dreadful numbness which seemed to envelop her, body and heart alike.

She walked to the door and opened it, and then she became aware that her companion was speaking. The words came as if from a great distance through a mighty void.

"He will need you," Isabella was saying through her tears. "Go back to him. He must not feel he is alone. See if your love can help him----" Then her sobs choked her, and she walked quickly away into the gathering darkness.

The girl returned to the hall and stood in front of the hearth. She wanted to think and lacked the power to do so. There was something she must do--what was it?

A servant came and handed her a letter as she stood there, and she took it mechanically without glancing at it. Her fingers tore it open automatically, and then she looked--and something burst the icy band which froze her faculties and a low cry broke from her: "Oh no! not now--not now."

It was a thin square envelope bearing an Italian stamp--a reply from her friend to say that the villa should be prepared for her.

It had come--now--when her dream was shattered, and the man she loved--for whom she had planned the journey to the Magical Island--knew her only as Jim's girl.