“There’s one thing I’m going to do, and that is, write you some jolly letters that will make you laugh in spite of yourself.  They will be part of the tonic treatment that I want you to promise me to begin at once.”

“I have already entered upon it, Graydon,” she said, quietly, “and I don’t think any one will value your letters more than I, only I may not get strong enough to write very much in reply.  I’ve never had occasion to write many letters, you know.  Tell me where you will be and what you are going to do,” and she leaned back upon her lounge and closed her eyes.

While he complied, he thought, “She has grown pale and thin even to ghastliness, yet I was sure she had color when I first came in.  Poor little thing! perhaps her fears are well founded, and I may never see her again;” and the good-hearted fellow was full of tender and remorseful regret.  He was quite as fond of her as if she had been his own sister, perhaps even more so, for his affection was not merely the result of a natural tie, but of something congenial to his nature in the girl herself, and it cut him to the heart to see her so white and frail.  He stopped a moment, and she opened her eyes and looked at him inquiringly.

“Oh, Madge,” he broke out, “I’m so sorry I took you to that confounded party.  You seemed getting on hopefully until that blasted evening.  You must get well enough to haunt me after your old fashion.  You don’t know what a dear little sister you have become, and I didn’t know it myself until you were secluded by illness, and all through my fault.  You have barricaded yourself long enough with that stand and its vase of roses.  I’m not going to say good-by at this distance.”  He removed the stand, and seating himself by her side, he drew her head down upon his shoulder and kissed her again and again.  “There now,” he continued, “you look perfectly lovely.  Kisses are a part of the tonic treatment you need, and I wish I were going to be here to give them.  Why, you queer little woman!  I did not know you had so much blood in your body.”

“It’s—­it’s because I’m not strong,” she said, struggling for release.  Suddenly she became still, her face took on almost the hue of death, and he saw that she was unconscious.

In terrible alarm he laid her hastily on the lounge, and rushed for Mrs. Muir.

“She has merely fainted,” said that experienced woman, after a moment’s examination.  “You never will learn, Graydon, that Madge is not as strong as yourself.  Call one of the maids, and leave her to me.”

That was the last time he saw Madge Alden for more than two years.  She soon rallied, but agreed with her sister that it would be best not to see him again.  She sent him one of his own roses, with the simple message, “Good-by.”

Late at night he went down to the steamer, depressed and anxious, carrying with him the vivid memory of Madge lying white and death-like where he had laid her apparently lifeless form.