me to anybody. It is more as if she could not forgive

me for being alive, and such a man, too, as she would have liked her son to be." "Maybe!" exclaimed a mournful deep voice near them. "Women have their own ways of tormenting themselves." Giorgio Viola had come out of the house. He threw a heavy black shadow in the torch- light, and the glare fell on his big face, on the great bushy head of white hair. He motioned the capataz in-doors with his extended arm. Dr. Monygham, after busying himself with a little medicament-box of polished wood on the seat of the landau, turned to old Giorgio and thrust into his big trembling hand one of the glass - stoppered bottles out of the case. " Give her a spoonful of this now and then, in water," he said. "It will make her easier." [ "And there is nothing more for her?" asked the old man patiently. " No. Not on earth," said the doctor, with his back to him, clicking the lock of the medicine-case. 1 Nostromo slowly crossed the large kitchen, all dark but for the glow of a heap of charcoal under the heavy mantel of the cooking-range, where water was boiling in an iron pot with a loud, bubbling sound. Between the two walls of a narrow staircase a bright light streamed from the sick-room above; and the mag- nificent capataz de cargadores stepping noiselessly in soft leather sandals, bushy whiskered, his muscular neck and bronzed chest bare in the open checked shirt, resembled a Mediterranean sailor just come ashore from

some wine or fruit laden felucca. At the top he