The Last of Their Race

by Annie S. Swan

And when she came to the end and related simply, yet with a sort of bald power, the story of her London experiences, he could bear no more.

"My God, Isla, you must cease! I tell you I can't hear any more."

"You must," she said clearly, "because this is the part which explains--which explains--why I am not free. You see, I had got so very tired and hopeless, and my money was all done, and I had no more heart left to fight. And just then Neil Drummond came, and he was like a brother to me, and--and he had loved me all my life, and I thought I, too, could care a little, and that we might be happy together."

He put his hand up to his forehead with a sudden gesture and kept it there until he felt the flash of Isla's mournful reproach on his face.

"If only you had written a single line!" she said almost piteously. "If I had ever known or guessed that you remembered my existence I could have held out. But I was so tired, so tired!"

She who had been strong so long, whom trouble had never daunted, gave way before the insistent clamour of her woman's heart. For the moment she could not forgo the real heritage of her womanhood--could not make the final renunciation. For she was not old yet, and life can be very long to the sad.

Rosmead was as one who took swift and decisive counsel with himself.

He lifted a chair to the hearth in front of her and sat down so that he could the better see her face.

"Listen to me, my dear," he said in his quiet, compelling voice. "We must face this thing together, try to grasp exactly what it means, and decide what is to be done. Let us do it quietly, try to deal with it as if we were not the chief actors in it."

Isla sat back and folded her hands on her lap. She was willing to listen--nay, listen she must. And, somehow, she did not seem to care. She had rolled away the stone from the door of her heart. Peter Rosmead knew that she loved him, just as she knew that he loved her. Well, he was strong and good, he would decide and act for her. Hence the peace upon her face, at which Rosmead, himself torn with conflict, wondered.