world is the matter, Philip? You look wretchedly ill."
"It's a trifle close here,—nothing's the matter."
He stepped nearer, dropping his voice:
"Catharine, who was that girl in black?"
"What girl?"
"She sat beside Colonel Farrar at dinner,—or I thought she did—"
"Do you mean Mrs. Van Siclen? She is in white, silly!"
"No—the girl in black."
His hostess bent her pretty head in perplexed silence, frowning a trifle with the effort to remember.
"There were so many," she murmured,—"let me see:—it is certainly strange that I cannot recollect. Wait a moment! Are you sure she wore black? Are you sure she sat next to Colonel Farrar?"
"A moment ago I was certain—" he said, hesitating. "Never mind, Catharine; I'll prowl about until I find her."
His hostess, already partly occupied with the animated stir around her, nodded brightly; Helmer turned his fevered eyes and then his steps toward the cool darkness of the conservatories. But he found there a dozen people who greeted him by name, demanding not only his company but his immediate and undivided attention.
"Mr. Helmer might be able to explain to us what his own work means," said a young girl, laughing.
They had evidently been discussing his sculptured group, just completed for the new façade of the National Museum. Press and public had commented very freely on the work since the unveiling a week since; critics quarrelled concerning the significance of the strange composition in marble. The group was at the same time repellent and singularly beautiful; but nobody denied its technical perfection. This was the sculptured group: A vaquero, evidently dying, lay in a loose heap among some desert rocks. Beside him, chin on palm, sat an exquisite winged figure, calm eyes fixed on the dying man. It was plain that death was near; it was stamped on the ravaged visage, on the collapsed frame. And yet, in the dying boy's eyes there was nothing of agony, no fear, only an intense curiosity as the lovely winged figure gazed straight into the glazing eyes.
"It may be," observed an attractive girl, "that Mr. Helmer will say with Mr. Gilbert,
"It is really very clever,
But I don't know what it means."
Helmer laughed and started to move away. "I think I'd better admit that at once," he said, passing his hand over his aching eyes;—but the tumult of protest blocked his retreat, and he was forced to find a chair under the palms and tree-ferns. "It was merely an idea of mine," he protested, good-humoredly,—"an idea that has haunted me so persistently that, to save myself further annoyance, I locked it up in marble."
"Demoniac obsession?" suggested a very young man, with a taste for morbid literature.
"Not at all," protested Helmer, smiling; "the idea annoyed me until I gave it expression. It doesn't bother me any more."
"You said," observed the attractive girl, "that you were going to tell us all about it."
"About the idea? Oh no, I didn't promise that—"
"Please, Mr. Helmer!"
A number of people had joined the circle; he could see others standing here and there among the palms, evidently pausing to listen.
"There is no logic in the idea," he said, uneasily,—"nothing to attract your attention. I have only laid a ghost—"
He stopped short. The girl in black stood there among the others, intently watching him. When she caught his eye, she nodded with the friendliest little smile; and as she started to rise she shook her head and stepped back with a gesture for him to continue.
They looked steadily at one another for a moment.
"The idea that has always attracted me," he began, slowly, "is purely instinctive and emotional, not logical. It is this: As long as I can remember I have taken it for granted that a person who is doomed to die, never dies utterly alone. We who die in our beds—or expect to—die surrounded by the living. So fall soldiers on the firing-line; so end the great majority,—never absolutely alone. Even in a murder, the murderer
