April 20th.

HER train leaves to-morrow morning.

This morning, before my breakfast, I went into the booth to call her up, and found that she was at the telephone trying to get me.

She said:

“I was n't very nice about your work, yesterday, Anthony. But I didn't quite understand at the moment. And you rushed off before I could think.”

I protested. I told her how I have been blaming myself for that.

“But you are wrong, dear,” she said. “I'm proud and happy for you. I shall be expecting a great deal of you, Anthony, when I am away off there in Paris.”

“I shall expect more of you,” I replied doggedly. Then I broke out—“I want to see you.”

“I know,” she breathed.

“But we must n't, Heloise. It's only one day more. Fortunately, we shall both be busy.”

She did n't reply at once. I thought the central operator had cut us off. I called, “Hello,” two or three times, and was about to ring for central when her voice floated again to my ear—

“Yes, Anthony, I'm here. It is fortunate, of course.... You'll come—at least—in the morning to help me get away?”

“Yes,” said I, “I'll come in the morning.” That was all. We said good-by then.

I have sent over a Japanese maid to help with her packing.

For myself, I have followed up the business of the stones all day. I feel that I should like to settle this affair before she goes. I want her to know that my work is starting so wonderfully well. And doubtless I shall hear from the Minister in the morning, the first thing. He has no reason to delay. The suggestion came from him, not from me.

I am proposing to call the Pien Ch'ing by his name. There are a few other perfect or nearly perfect specimens in existence, and a special name is desirable. His will do as well as any for the purpose of identifying ours.

I am very nervous to-night. Hindmann observed it before I was fully aware of it myself. He tried to make me drink some whisky. But I don't see what good that would do.

These last few days, as I look back on them, seem quite unreal. I walk about. I eat. I even sleep. I talk with Hindmann about one thing and another, naturally enough. I laugh, I become heated, angry. I even think intently of many workaday things. Why, to-day after tiffin, when Hindmann made his curious proposal that Heloise and I go into vaudeville under his management, I discussed the thing quite rationally before declining—particularly as to the possibility of making her gift of close-interval singing intelligible to the ordinary audience.... And yet, nothing is really so. Back of it all there is a nervous pressure, a tension....

Well, it is all over, this strange drama. It has changed me vitally. I shall never again be the self-centered—no, not self-centered, either—work-centered recluse that I have been. Life has seized upon me and whirled me into its main current. I have felt passion and jealousy. I have loved. I have hated. I have fought. I have held in my arms—close, close—the one woman whose eyes have the magic power to unlock my heart and flood it with the radiant music of love.

And now we go our ways—because it is life. I had her large trunk conveyed to the station this afternoon. To-morrow morning I shall call for her. We shall step into our separate rickshaws; quiet-seeming folk; I a thin man in spectacles and an overcoat and a soft hat; she a slim, graceful woman, wearing a simple black suit, slightly pale for want of the outdoor air, and with a touch of perplexity and mystery in her shadowy blue eyes.

We shall ride to the East Station. I will see that she is comfortably settled on the train; and wish her a not too unpleasant journey, and stand there in the station until the train shall have disappeared beyond the end of the Chinese city wall.

That will be the end.