One day, late in the afternoon, as she sat so watching, Phebe suddenly opened her eyes.  “Will you call him, please?  I hear him.”

“Who?  Denham?” asked Soeur Angelique, with quick intuition.  A finer ear than hers had caught the light step and low voice in the narrow hall below.

“Yes, Denham,” said Phebe, softly.  “Denham.  I want to see him.”

It pleased her to say his name so.  She said it to herself over and over beneath her breath, while waiting for him to come.  It was but a moment, and he was kneeling by the bedside, holding both her hands in his.  She looked up in his face and smiled, and said his name again, lower still.

“Denham.”

“Yes, Phebe—­yes, dear,” he answered, too moved to say more.

“I only wanted to say good-by,” she continued, her eyes full of a love unutterable that not even the shadow of coming death could wholly darken.  “Will you kiss me good-by please, this once, good-by—­for always?”

A faint, soft flush crept up over her white face, and he bent down and kissed her gently, as one would kiss the Madonna of a shrine.

“Phebe,” he whispered, “not for always only for a time, dear—­good-by.”

“Yes,” she said, with a glad smile lighting up all her sweet, pure face.  “Only for a time.”

And them, still holding her hands tightly clasped in his, Denham bent down his head upon them and prayed.

The sunset came and faded, and the twilight came and went, giving place to the solemn stillness of the enduring night.  The stars shone clear and still.  Not a breath stirred.  In his study Denham knelt alone, praying for a dear and lovely life, praying against hope, against belief—­against all but faith.  He did not know what time it was—­it seemed as if it might be morning—–­when at last the door opened and Soeur Angelique came in.  He got up and stood waiting, too agitated to speak.  What news could she bring him but the one?  She came slowly up to him, then gave a little gasp, and flinging her arms around his neck, burst into tears.

“O Denham, Denham, all is over!  Phebe is dead!”

CHAPTER XV.

ONLY AN INCIDENT.

The morning sun was streaming brilliantly in through the richly curtained windows of a handsome New York dwelling.  Mr. and Mrs. De Forest were about sitting down to breakfast, which waited for them ready served, and which indeed had been so waiting for some minutes.  The butler coughed behind his hand as a discreet reminder of his presence, and so indirectly of the cooling dishes.  The gentleman looked up from his easy-chair by the fire and yawned.

“My dear, I’ve been up so long I think it’s getting bedtime again.”

“Just one moment, Ogden,” answered the lady, from her desk.  “I must send off this note by the first mail.”

“Any thing important?”

“Yes.  I will not be put on that new committee.  They must find some one else.  My time is too full.”