She glanced up and nodded a welcome.

"So you have come back," she said; "I have been wishing for you."

He smiled, came forward and stood by her, saying:

"I thought you had given up any such weakness. You seem very busy."

"This tiresome embroidery has been lying about so long that I am working on it for very shame," she replied.

"Elsie began it and was delighted with it for three days, but she has not touched it since."

"Very like the little fairy," he said, with a smile any reference to the young girl always brought to his lips.

Elizabeth did not wish to talk, it was important that she should hide the real feelings that oppressed her even under an appearance of playfulness. She looked up and smiled:

"If you were good-natured you would sit down here and read to me. There is Bulwer's new book."

"I will, with pleasure; but where is Elsie?"

"Oh, Tom Fuller came, and she made him take her out for a row; so I have been alone in my den, as she calls it."

"The child can't bear the least approach to a shadow," he said; "she must have her sunshine undisturbed."

He drew an easy chair near the window where Elizabeth sat, took up the novel she had asked him to read, and began the splendid story.

He read beautifully, and Elizabeth was glad to forget her unquiet reflections in the melody of his voice and the rare interest of the tale. Mellen himself was in a mood to be comfortable and at rest.

The brightness of the sunset was flooding the waters before either of them looked up again. Then Mellen said:

"Those careless creatures ought to come back; it grows chilly on the water as evening comes on, and the least thing gives Elsie cold."

Elizabeth shaded her eyes with her hand and looked over the bay.

"They are coming," she said; "I can see them."

Mellen looked in the direction to which she pointed, and saw the boat rounding a point of land and making swiftly up the bay.

"Tom is as strong as a young Hercules," he said, watching the little skiff as it fairly flew through the water under the impulse of that powerful arm, and aided by the inward rush of the tide.

They remained watching it till it approached near enough for them to distinguish Elsie's white wrappings. Suddenly Mellen said:

"She is rocking the boat dreadfully! She is standing up—The girl is crazy to run such risks!"

Elizabeth looked and saw Elsie erect in the skiff, her shawl floating around her, rocking the boat to and fro with reckless force, while she could see by Tom's gestures that he was vainly expostulating with her upon her imprudence.

Mellen went into the hall and out on the veranda, with some vague idea of trying to attract the imprudent girl's attention by signals; but the skiff was far off, and Elsie too much occupied to observe them.

Elizabeth threw down her work and followed him, standing by his side in silent apprehension.

"She is mad!" exclaimed Mellen, "absolutely mad!"

Elsie's gay laugh rang over the waters, and they could see Tom expostulating with more animated gestures.

"She will fall overboard, as sure as fate!" cried Mellen. "Oh! Elsie, Elsie!"

But the exclamation could not reach the reckless creature; probably she would have paid no attention had she heard it.

"Oh, see how it rocks!" cried Elizabeth with a shiver.

"She is frightened at her own recklessness," said Mellen, "but will not stop, because it disturbs Tom."

"Perhaps there is less danger than we think," began Elizabeth, but a cry from her husband checked the words.

She looked—the boat had tipped till the edge was even with the water; suddenly Elsie tottered, lost her balance—there was a smothered shriek from the distance—then she disappeared under the crested waves.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE AFTER STRUGGLE.

Mellen sprang down the steps and rushed across the lawn, with some mad idea of trying to rescue his sister; and, following as well as her trembling limbs would permit, Elizabeth saw Tom throw off his coat and plunge into the water.

"He will save her!" she cried; "he will save her!"

Mellen only answered by a groan; he was looking wildly about for a boat, but there was none in sight; thus powerless to aid his darling—he could only stand and watch the struggles of another to rescue her from that death peril. They saw an object rise above the waves—saw Tom swim towards it—seize it—he had caught the girl in his arms. The couple on the lawn could neither move nor cry out; but stood in breathless expectation, and watched him support his burthen with one arm, while with the other he swam towards the skiff, which the tide was bearing in towards the shore. It was a long pull; they could see that he began to falter after his exertions in rowing; a deathly fear crept over both those hearts, but they did not speak—scarcely breathed.

Suddenly an outgoing wave washed the helpless girl from Tom's grasp; she was sinking again. Strong man as he was, Grantley Mellen's courage gave way; then covering his face with his hands he sallied back, resting against a tree, afraid to look again. White and cold, Elizabeth watched the boat drift one way, and saw Tom snatch at the girl's dress and get her again in the grasp of his strong arm.

"He has caught her!" she gasped. "He has almost reached the boat. Grantley! Grantley! she is safe!"

Mellen looked up. Tom had just put his hand on the side of the skiff, and was lifting Elsie in. It was evidently the last effort of his mighty strength, for he floated for some distance, holding on to the boat before he had power to attempt more. The husband and wife watched him while he got into the boat himself, lifted Elsie's head on his knee, and allowed the tide almost entirely to wash them towards the beach.

As they approached the bank Elsie began to recover consciousness. As Tom took her in his arms and sprang with a staggering bound on shore, she opened her eyes and saw her brother and Elizabeth.

"I'm safe," she said, faintly, "quite safe. Don't be afraid."

It was not a moment for many words. With an exclamation of thankfulness, Mellen snatched Elsie from Tom's arms and carried her into the house. In a few moments their united exertions brought the reckless girl completely to herself. She looked up and saw the anxious faces bent over her.

"Don't scold," she cried, "Tom saved me, Grant, Tom saved me!"

Mellen grasped Fuller's hands.

"I can't thank you, I can't," he said. "God bless you, my friend."

Tom was shaking from head to foot, his drenched garments dripping like a river god's, but he answered as soon as his chattering teeth would permit:

"Don't say a word. I'd have drowned myself, if I hadn't saved her."

Elizabeth insisted upon Elsie's being carried upstairs to her room, and sent Tom off to change his dress; luckily, in his frequent visits, he had always forgotten some portion of his baggage, so dry clothes were found in his room.

Before Mellen had recovered from the shock sufficiently to be at all composed, Elsie was dressed and lying on the sofa in her own room, quite restored, with the exception of her unusual pallor. She had been wrapped in a rose-colored morning robe, trimmed with swansdown, and lay in delicate relief on the blue couch of her boudoir. Mellen was bending over her and holding her hands, as if he feared to let her free for an instant; while Elizabeth stood near, finding time, now that her labors were over, to watch her husband and wonder if danger to her would have brought a pang like this to his heart.

"I am quite well now," said Elsie, "and I didn't feel much frightened."

"Oh, child!" said her brother, "promise me never to run such risks again."

"But you mustn't scold," she pleaded; "think of the danger I was in! Oh! it was horrible to feel the water closing over my head—to go down—down!"

"Don't think of it," cried Elizabeth, making a sudden effort to change the conversation, from a fear that dwelling upon the danger which she had incurred might bring on one of Elsie's nervous attacks.

"No," added Mellen; "it is all over now, quite over—don't think of it any more."

"You look pale, Grant."

"No wonder, no wonder!"

The girl gave him one of her wilful smiles.

"Perhaps I tried the experiment to see how much you loved me?"

Mellen lifted her in his arms and rested her head upon his shoulder, while many emotions struggled across his face.

"Child!" he said, in a tremulous voice, "you knew before—you have always known. My mother's treasure—my pride—my blessing!"

There Elizabeth stood, forgotten, disregarded—so it seemed to her; but she made no sign which could betray the bitter anguish at her heart.

There came a knock at the door.

"That's Tom Fuller," said Elsie; "tell him to come in, Bessie."

Mellen started up and opened the door himself. There stood Tom, clad in dry garments, but still greatly agitated.

"How is she?" he asked. "Is she better?"

"You have saved her life!" exclaimed Mellen, grasping his two hands; "you have saved her life!"

"But is she better?" he repeated, quite too anxious for any thought of the credit due himself, and too unselfish to desire it even if he had remembered.

"Come in and see," called Elsie, in a tender voice from her sofa.

Tom brushed by Mellen, and down he went on his knees by the couch, exclaiming:

"She looks all right now. Oh, thank God!"

Mellen had been too profoundly disturbed himself for conjecture regarding this passionate outburst; to him it seemed natural that every one should be agitated, and Elsie soon brought them back to safer common-places by her gayety, which not even the peril from which she had been so recently rescued could entirely subdue.

"I declare, Tom," said she, "you are useful in a household located near the water, as a Newfoundland dog."

"Oh, I can't laugh," cried Tom.

"But you must!" said the wilful creature. "You will not put on long faces because I am saved, I suppose?"

"Elsie," said her brother, "you ought to sleep awhile; Tom and I will go out."

"No, no," she persisted, "I am not in the least sleepy—you must not go away—I shall only get nervous if you leave me alone; I shall be quite well by dinner-time. Tom Fuller, don't go!"

They did not oppose her; every one there knew that it was of no use, for in the end they would surely yield to her caprices.

"I haven't thanked you yet, Tom," she said.

"I don't know what there is to thank me for."

"Indeed!" said Elsie; "so you don't think my life of enough importance to have the saving of it a matter of consequence?"

"You know that wasn't what I meant," said Tom, rubbing his damp hair with one hand.

"You are too bad," said Mellen, laughing, "too bad, Elsie."

"Indeed, I shall tease him more than ever," replied Elsie; "he will grow conceited if I don't. Tell him how much you like me to tease you, old Tom."

"Well," said he, a little ruefully, "you have always done it, and I suppose you always will—I shouldn't think it was you if you stopped now."

Even Elizabeth laughed, and Elsie said:

"There, there, old Tom, don't get sentimental. Perhaps I'll be good-natured for three days by way of reward for pulling me out of the water."

"I'd like to save your life every day in the week at that rate," cried Tom in ecstasy.

"No, no!" added Mellen; "I think one such exploit is quite enough."

Elsie seized Tom's hand, and said with real feeling:

"Tom, I do thank you—I can't tell you how much."

"Don't, don't!" he pleaded. "If you say another word I'll run off and never show my face again."

Elsie began to laugh once more, and the lingering trace of seriousness died quite out of her face.

"Tom is good at a catastrophe," said she, "but he can't carry on the blank verse proper to the after situation."

"Blank enough it would be," rejoined Tom, and then he was so much astonished to find that he had made a sort of joke, that the idea covered him with fresh confusion.

Elsie's disaster passed off without dangerous consequences to the reckless girl, and she had half forgotten the occurrence long before Mellen recovered composure enough to thank, with sufficient fervor, the noble-hearted man who had saved her life.

From that day Tom Fuller took a place in Mellen's esteem which he had never held before; his gratitude was unbounded, and as he learned to know and appreciate the young man, he found a thousand noble qualities to admire under that rugged exterior. And as Elsie softened into gentler earnestness, and drew closer to him day by day, Tom became so completely engrossed in his happy love-dream that he had not a single thought beyond it. In her loneliness and her anxieties which separated her so completely from those three hearts, Elizabeth Mellen watched, sighed sometimes, whispering to herself:

"She has taken even Tom from me. I have nothing left—husband—relative—all, all abandon me for her."



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

A HALF UNDERSTANDING.

Elsie was twenty now, but looking younger from her fragile form and the extreme delicacy of her complexion. The reader knows how winsome and playful her manners were; how she was loved and cherished by her brother, and it seemed hard that a creature like her, so innocent and winsome, should have even a knowledge of the secret which oppressed Elizabeth. It seemed to prove more depth of character than one would have expected, that she was in any way able or willing to help her sister-in-law to bear her secret burthen, let that burthen be what it might.

The vague thoughts which had troubled Grantley Mellen on the night of his arrival, had died out. On calm reflection he could understand that it was quite in keeping with the restrained intensity of Elizabeth's nature, that the very violence of the storm should have forced her into it. That the sudden sound of his voice and step should have brought on the nervous weakness to which she so seldom gave way, was equally natural after so much excitement.

Then Elsie came back so blithe and blooming, brought so much sunshine into the house, and drew them both so much into her amusements, that the first days of Mellen's return were pleasant indeed.

The weather had been delightful; they enjoyed rides and drives, moonlight excursions upon the water; there had been visits to receive and return among neighbors and friends; people had heard of Mellen's return, and came uninvited from New York, bringing all that festal bustle and change which puts holidays every now and then into the ordinary routine of our lives.

The first days passed and still the sky was unclouded. Grantley Mellen began to think that he was at last to be happy, and grew cheerful with the thought. So for a time love cast out all fear in the husband's heart.

There had been no further return of that inexplicable nervousness in Elizabeth; the strained, anxious look almost entirely left her face; she was even more lively than was customary with her. It was not that the fear and dread had left her mind, but she was on her guard, and there was a reticence and strength in her character which even those who knew her best did not fully understand. A stern, settled purpose would keep her through her course, whatever might lie behind.

During those happy days there had been no more confidences between her and Elsie; indeed it seemed almost as if Elizabeth avoided the girl—not in a way to be noticed even by Mellen's quick eyes—if it was so, Elsie on her side did not attempt to break through these little restraints that had fallen around them. It was natural that she should be glad to escape from the gloom which surrounded Elizabeth, and in this respect the fickleness of her character was fortunate; from her lack of concentrativeness, the girl was able to throw off any trouble the moment its actual danger was removed from her path.

Thus the first days had passed, allowing them to settle down into tolerable quiet, but not too much of it, for Elsie could not endure that. Society was her element; trifle and champagne seemed her natural nourishment, and she drooped so quickly if compelled to seclusion, that, with his usual weakness where she was concerned, Mellen relinquished his own desires to gratify her caprices.

You may think this not in keeping with his character and habits, but reflect a little and you will see that it was perfectly natural. The promise which he had made to his mother was always in his mind; he never forgot his fears for Elsie's health; she was more like a daughter than a sister to him, and her very childishness was a great charm to a man of his grave nature. The very servants delighted in waiting on her, though her requirements were numerous; but they did it all willingly, and put a great deal more heart into her service than they ever exhibited in obeying Elizabeth's moderate and reasonable requests. They mistook Mrs. Mellen's quiet manners for pride, and held her in slight favor in consequence; so dazzled by Elsie's manner, that when she gave them a cast-off garment or a worthless ornament, it seemed a much greater boon than the real kindness Elizabeth invariably displayed when they were in sickness or trouble.

Elizabeth humored her sister-in-law with the rest, but there was a soreness at her heart all the while; for sometimes when she saw this young creature clinging about her husband, her face wore the strange expression it had done while she watched their meeting after his return.

The domestic life at Piney Cove was nearly happiness at this time. But for Elizabeth's hidden anxieties, Mellen's return would have made that old house almost like heaven. As it was, this haunted woman would sometimes forget her causes of dread, and break out into gleams of loving cheerfulness in spite of them.

After the night on which the bracelet was lost, the sunshine which had brightened the little household at Piney Cove was dimmed by a thousand intangible shadows. In spite of all his efforts, Grantley Mellen's suspicions were aroused and kept on the alert, searching for proofs that could only bring unhappiness when found.

You would not have said that he was suffering from jealousy; there was nothing upon which his mind settled itself that gave rise to that feeling, but he fretted absolutely because he had no power to discover every thought of Elizabeth's soul during his absence. Then as he reflected upon the mystery connected with his arrival, came up afresh the disappearance of the bracelet, and he lost himself in a maze of irritating conjecture, of which his fine judgment often grew ashamed.

Elizabeth wore her old proud look for several days after the night of the dinner-party. Grantley felt that the ice of the past was freezing between them once more, and the idea caused him acute pain.

He sat watching her one day as she bent over her needlework, talking a little at intervals, listening occasionally to passages from his book; oftener sitting there with her fingers moving hurriedly, as if she were pressed for time, but her anxious face proving how far from this occupation her thoughts had wandered.

More than once Mellen saw the dark brows contract as if under actual distress, and as he ceased to speak, and seemed wholly absorbed in his book, he could see that her reverie became more absorbing and painful.

"Elizabeth!" he said suddenly.

His wife started. In her preoccupation she had forgotten that he was in the room—forgotten that she was not alone with those dark reflections which cast their shadow over her face.

"Did you speak, Grantley?"

"Yes; how you started!"

"Did I start?" she asked, trying to laugh. "I don't know how it is that I grow so nervous."

"You never were so afflicted formerly."

"No; I don't remember," she replied quickly. "But you know I had a good deal of care and responsibility during your absence; it may be that which has shaken me a little."

"Do you believe it?" he asked, in a constrained voice.

She shot one glance of indignant pride at him; for an instant she looked inclined to leave the room, as had frequently been her habit during the first months of their marriage, when he irritated her beyond endurance.

But if Elizabeth had the inclination she controlled it. After a moment's silence she laid down her work and approached the sofa where he was lying.

"Don't be severe with me, Grantley," she said, with a degree of humility unknown to the past; "my head aches drearily—I don't think I am well."

His feelings changed as he looked at her; she was not well; he could see the traces of pain in the languid eyes and the contracted forehead, but whether the suffering was mental or physical even a physiognomist could not have told.

He reached out his hand and drew her towards him; she sat down on the sofa and leaned her head against his shoulder with a little sigh of weariness.

"I can rest here," she whispered; "it is my place, isn't it, Grantley?"

There was tender, almost childish pleading in her voice; he lifted her face, looked into her eyes and saw tears there.

"What is it, Bessie?" he asked. "Have I hurt you?"

The recollection of all the doubts and suspicious thoughts which had been in his mind came back, and forgetful of his idea that some recent anxiety made the change in her manner, he reproached himself with having brought a cloud between them by his own actions.

"Have I pained you in anything, Bessie?" he repeated.

"I feared the old trouble was coming back," she whispered.

"No, no; it must not, it shall not, Bessie! I am to blame—but if you knew what this wretched disposition makes me suffer! Every heart I trusted in my early life deceived me. I have only you left now—you and Elsie."

Perhaps it was natural that she should feel a little wifely jealousy at having his sister forced in, even to their closest confidence; her face was overclouded for an instant, but she subdued the feeling and said, kindly:

"I know what you have suffered, dear; I can understand the effect it has had upon your character—but you may trust me—indeed you may."

"I know that, dear wife; I believe that!"

He drew her closer to him; for a few moments she sat with her hand among the short, dark curls of his hair, then she said, abruptly:

"Grantley?"

"What is it, dear?"

"I want to ask you something."

"It can't be anything very terrible; you need not hesitate so."

"Only because it sounds foolish!"

"Nothing ever can seem foolish from your lips," he said, softly; and she blushed like a girl at his praise.

"That woman you—you loved once," she said; "was she dearer to you than I am?"

Grantley Mellen's face darkened.

"Let me blot out all thought of that time," he exclaimed, passionately; "I would like to burn out of my soul every trace of those years in which she had a part. I loved her with the passion of youth—no, Bessie, it was not a feeling so deep and holy as my love for you, and it is over for ever."

His face softened, and his voice trembled with a more gentle emotion, for he thought of that lone grave on the hillside, which he had so lately seen closed over his first love.

"Then you do love me?" whispered his wife; "you do love me?"

"What a question, darling!"

"Yes, I know it is silly."

"Bessie," he exclaimed, after a moment's thought; "I cannot help the feeling—you seem changed."

"I—changed, Grantley?"

"It may be my fault; but I feel as if there was a something which kept us apart—a mystery which I cannot penetrate—a gulf which no effort of mine can bridge."

She was a little agitated at first, but that passed.

"What mystery could there be?" she asked. "I don't understand you, Grantley."

"I hardly know what I mean myself. Is it my fault, Elizabeth? Are you angry still at what I said the night you lost your bracelet?"

She did not stir; she kept the hand he held even from quivering, but the face he could not see grew white and contracted under a sterner pain.

"Were you angry, Bessie?" he repeated.

"Not angry," she said, in a low voice, hesitating somewhat. "I was hurt and indignant—you ought to trust me, my husband."

"I do, dearest, I do trust you! Why should I not? There is no secret between us, Bessie—no mystery—nothing which keeps our hearts asunder!"

She was silent—she was struggling for power to speak, knowing that every second of hesitation told against her in a way which volumes of protestation could never counteract.

"There is no such cloud between us?" he said again.

"No, Grantley, no!"

She spoke almost sharply.

"Don't be angry with me, Elizabeth."

"I am not, indeed I am not!"

She was speaking firmly now—her voice was a little hard, like that of a person making an effort to appear natural.

"I am not angry, but I ask you to reason—to reflect. What secret could I have—what mystery?"

"None, wife, none; I know that!"

"And yet you cannot be at rest?"

"I am—I will be."

For a few moments they sat together in silence, then Mellen said:

"Even in your past, Bessie, you have no secret!"

"None," she answered, and her voice was perfectly open and sincere now. "There is not in all my girlhood the least thing that I could wish to conceal from you; it passed quietly, it was growing very dreary and cold when you came with your love and carried me away to a brighter life."

"It is so sweet to hear this, Bessie!" he whispered, as his face grew gentle with the tenderness which warmed his heart. "We have been separated so much, had so little time to realize our happiness, that neither of us have quite learned to receive it quietly—don't you think it is so, dear child?"

"It may be," she exclaimed, and her voice deepened with sudden intensity. "Only trust me, my husband; trust and love me always. I will deserve it. Only trust me!"

"Always, Bessie, always! My darling, I have only you in the whole world—all my hopes, my love, centre upon you—I am like a miser with one treasure which he fears to lose."

"Only a treasure to you," she said, playfully; "you would be astonished to see what a common-place pebble it is to other people."

"That is not so; you know it, Bessie."

"Never mind how it may be; if I am precious in your eyes it is all I ask."

So they talked each other into serenity for the time. Their married life had been so broken up that it was natural that much of the enthusiasm of lovers should remain—even in their old difficulties there had been none of the common-place quarrels which degrade love, and wear it out much more quickly than a trouble which strikes deeper ever does.

"Since I came back," Grantley said, "I have sometimes thought it might be a little feeling towards Elsie which made you so strange."

"What feeling but kindness could I have?" she asked.

"True; it would not be like you, Bessie. You love her, don't you? It was through her we knew each other—remember that!"

"I do, and very pleasantly; but I have no need to think of that to be kind and gentle with her—when have you seen me otherwise?"

"Never; I can honestly say never!"

"Has Elsie complained?"

"No, dear, and never had such a thought, I am certain."

"When I married you, Grantley, your sister became mine—I could not be more anxious for her, more willing to guard and cherish her, if she had been a legacy from my own dead mother, than I am now."

"I am certain of that, and I love and honor you for it. But in your place I should perhaps be annoyed even to have a sister share affection with me."

"It is not like your love for me?"

"No, no; no love could be like that! But Elsie is such a child, such a happy, innocent creature, and I never look at her without remembering my dying mother's last words. If any harm came to her, Bessie, I think I could not even venture to meet that lost mother in heaven."

"No harm will come to her, Grantley—none shall!"

"I think she is one of those creatures born to be happy; I trust she may never have a great trial in all her life. I don't believe she could endure it; she would fade like a flower."

"It is impossible to tell how any one would receive suffering," Elizabeth replied; "sometimes those very fragile natures are best able to bear up, and find an elasticity which prevents sorrow taking deep root."

"It may be so; but I could not bear to have any pain come near her—It would strike my own heart."

"Could any one be more light-hearted and careless than she is?"

"Oh, she is happy as a bird—only let us keep her so."

Even into the utmost sacredness of their affection, that sister's image must be brought—it did cause Elizabeth pain in spite of all her denials—Mellen might have discovered that if he had seen her face. But the feeling passed swiftly, the face cleared, and while it brightened under his loving words the strength of a great resolution settled down upon it.

They sat in that old fashioned room talking for a long time. It was the happiest, most peaceful day they had spent since Mellen's return.

After a time, Mellen proposed that they should go out to ride, for the afternoon was sunny and delightful.

"A long gallop over the hills will do you good," he said; "it is a shame to spend such weather in the house."

While he ordered the horses, Elizabeth went up to her dressing-room to put on her habit.

She dressed herself without assistance, and with a feverish haste which brought the color to her face and light to her eyes.

"I will be happy," she muttered; "I will not think. There is no looking back now; it is too late; only let me keep the past shut close and go on toward the future."

As she stood before the glass, gazing absently at the reflection of her own face and repeating those thoughts aloud, her husband's voice called her from the hall below.

"Bessie, come down—the horses are at the door."

She broke away from her reverie and hurried downstairs, where he met her with a fond smile and a new pride in her unusual beauty.

"The very thought of the fresh air has done you good," he said.

"It is not that, Grantley—not that."

He looked at her tenderly, understanding all that her words meant.

"Because we are happy?" he whispered.

"With your love and confidence to bless my life I have all the happiness I can ask," she said, earnestly.

He led her down the steps, seated her upon her horse, and they rode away down the hill, and dashed out upon the pleasant road.

"We will go over the hills," Grantley said; "the air is so delightful there, and one has such a magnificent view of the ocean."

"I believe you would be wretched away from the boisterous old sea," said Elizabeth, laughing.

"I do love it; when I was a boy my one desire was to be a sailor. Some time, Bessie, we will have a yacht and go cruising about to our heart's content; after Elsie is married though, for she suffers so dreadfully from fright and illness."

"It would be very pleasant, Grantley."

"Would it not? Just you and I alone; it would be like having a little world all to ourselves. Allons, Bessie; here is a nice level place for a gallop; wake Gipsy up."

They rode on swiftly, growing so light-hearted and joyous that they were laughing and talking like a pair of happy children, seeming quite out of reach of all the shadows which had darkened their hearts during the past days.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR.

While Mellen and Elizabeth rode off through the golden afternoon, Elsie and Tom Fuller came in from a stroll about the grounds. They had seen the husband and wife galloping down the avenue, and as they entered the hall, Elsie said:

"They have left us to amuse ourselves the best way we can; what shall we do, Tom Fuller?"

"I'm ready for anything."

"We might go out rowing."

"Oh, Elsie!"

"Only Grant would be angry, and you have grown afraid of the water."

"No wonder, where you are concerned," cried Tom. "I can't think of that dreadful day without a shudder."

"I don't allow myself to think of it at all," said Elsie.

She led the way into the library and sat down in a low chair, throwing off her garden-hat, and beginning to arrange the wild flowers which she held in her hands around the crown.

"What color is this, Tom?" she asked, holding up a delicate purple blossom that drooped its head, as if faint with its own perfume.

Tom's ignorance of color was a never-failing source of amusement to her. He looked at the flower very seriously; then after reflection said, in the tone of a man who was certain of being perfectly correct for once:

"That's blue, of course; I am not quite blind, whatever you may think."

Elsie screamed with delight.

"Oh, you delicious old goose! I suppose you call this one pink?"

"Yes," said Tom, confident that he must be right this time; "I suppose the most prejudiced person would have to call that pink."

"It's the most delicate lavender," cried Elsie, in fresh shrieks of ecstasy at Tom's blindness. "Oh, I never saw such a stupid in all my life."

Tom rubbed his forehead for an instant, then Elsie's laughter proved so contagious that he burst into merriment as hearty as her own.

"I don't suppose," said Tom, "there's such an idiot on the face of the earth as I am."

"I really don't suppose there is," replied Elsie, candidly.

"It is absolutely beyond belief," said Tom.

"It is," answered Elsie.

"And I shall never be any better," cried Tom.

"I have told you so a thousand times," rejoined Elsie, humming a tune, inclined to perfect truthfulness for once.

Tom's face lengthened for an instant, he gave his hair another unmerciful combing with his fingers.

"And you think there's not the least help for it?"

"Not the very least in the world, Tom, not a gleam of hope! But don't feel bad about it; I am tired of brilliant men; everybody is something wonderful now-a-days; it's really fatiguing."

"Do you think so?" demanded he; "do you really?"

"Upon my honor."

"Then I'm glad I am a donkey," said Tom, energetically.

"And so am I," returned Elsie. "There, see, isn't that a lovely wreath?"

She held up the hat for Tom to scent the delicious fragrance of the garland twisted around it.

"You take the color quite out of them, holding them near your cheeks," said Tom, with a glance of admiration.

"I declare you are getting complimentary! You shall have a wild rosebud for your button-hole in payment; kneel down here, while I put it in."

Tom dropped on his knees while Elsie leisurely selected the flower. She was talking all the while, and Tom on his part would have been glad to prolong the situation indefinitely, for the pleasure of having her little face so close to his, and her hands flirting the blossoms about his lips was entrancing.

"No," pursued she, "I am tired of brilliant men; they always make my head ache with their grand talk. You know I'm a childish little thing, Tom, and learned discussions don't suit me."

"You're a fairy, a witch, an enchanted princess!" cried Tom.

"Exactly," replied Elsie. "Perhaps a verbena would look better than a rosebud, Tom."

Tom cared very little what she put in his button-hole; a thistle, thorns and all, would have been precious to him if her hands had touched it, and he would have torn his fingers against the prickles with an exquisite sense of enjoyment.

"No, the rose is the prettiest," said Elsie, and she threw the verbena away, and began her task again.

"Are you tired; do you want to get up, Tom?"

"You know I'd rather be here than in heaven!" he exclaimed.

Elsie gave him one of her bewildering glances.

"You don't mean that," said she; "you know you don't!"

"I do, I do! Oh, Elsie!"

"Keep still, keep still. You jump about so that I can't fasten the rose; there, I've lost the pin; no, here it is."

She was so busy with her work now that her face bent quite close to his, her fair curls touched his cheeks, her breath stirred the hair on his temples; the intoxication of the moment carried Tom beyond all power of self-restraint.

He snatched Elsie's two hands and cried out:

"I must speak; I shall die if I don't! I haven't said a word since I came back; I know it's useless; but I love you, Elsie, I do love you."

She struggled faintly for an instant, then allowed him to keep her hands, and looked down into his face through her drooping lashes with an expression that made Tom's head fairly reel.

"Don't be angry with me," he pleaded; "don't drive me away! I'll never open my lips; just let me speak now! You can't think how much I love you, Elsie. I'd cut myself into inch pieces if it would do you any good. I'd die for you."

"I would rather you lived," whispered Elsie.

Tom caught the words; a mad hope sprang up in his honest heart; he knew that it was folly, but he could not subdue it then.

"If you could only learn to love me," he went on, hurriedly; "I'd be a slave to you, Elsie! I am rich now; I could give you everything your heart desired; if you could only care for me; such lots of candies and pretty things."

"You saved my life, Tom," she returned, in that same thrilling whisper which shook the very heart in his bosom.

"Oh, don't bring that up as a claim," he said; "what was I born for except to be useful to you? But I love you so; if you could only make up your mind to endure my ugliness and my awkward ways, and—and——"

"You are a great big fellow and I like that, and don't think you ugly," said Elsie; "and I don't care if you are awkward. I am sick of men that walk about like ballet-dancers."

"You only say that out of good-nature," said Tom; "you are afraid of hurting my feelings."

"Don't I always say what I think?" rejoined she.

"But you don't care for me—you couldn't love me!"

"You have told me so three times already," said Elsie.

But all the while there was something in her face and voice which made him persevere. He had never thought to speak of his love to her again. This was the last, last time; but he would open his whole heart now, she should see the exact truth.

In his great excitement, Tom forgot all bashfulness; he did not halt in his speech, but poured out his story in strong, manly words, that must have awakened at least a feeling of respect in any woman's bosom.

"I tried to cure myself," continued Tom. "I thought absence—entire change—might make a difference in my feelings. But when the two years ended I came back, only to find my love grown deeper from the lapse of time, with every feeling more firmly centred there. You speak kindly to me sometimes. You pity me—at least you pity me! But you couldn't love me, of course; that is impossible! Let me get up—I mustn't talk any more—let me go!"

But Elsie's hand still rested upon his shoulder,—she did not stir.

"You could not love me," repeated Tom; "never, never: you have told me so ever so many times."

"I was silly and wicked," she whispered; "I am wiser now."

Her words lifted Tom into the seventh heaven. He cried out:

"Don't trifle with me, Elsie—not just now—I couldn't stand it!"

"I am not trifling with you, Tom."

"You don't mean that you care for me?"

His voice was broken and low. He waited for her to push him away, to break the spell rudely, but her hand never moved from his shoulder. It seemed to rest there with a caressing pressure, as a bird settles on a fondling hand, and still the fair curls swept his cheek.

"Elsie! Elsie!" he cried, half-wild with struggling emotions.

"Dear Tom," she murmured again.

"Oh, are you in earnest?" he almost sobbed. "Could you take me, Elsie? Let me be your slave—ready to tend you—to care for you—only living for your happiness!"

Elsie shook her head archly:

"You would grow tired of petting me."

"Never, never! You know it!"

"I should be a dreadful little tyrant—it is in my nature; you would never have a will of your own."

"I wouldn't want it; I wouldn't ask it!"

"I should flirt and drive you wild."

"I would never try to stop you."

"I should tease you incessantly."

"You'd only make me the happier."

"I should tell you all sorts of fibs."

"There would be no necessity, for I would not dispute your wishes."

"You would grow tired of that."

"Only try me."

"You couldn't love me always, and pet me, and never get out of patience, and think I was perfect."

"I could—I should—I always shall! Oh, Elsie, Elsie, I love you so—I love you so!"

"Get up, Tom; you are a foolish old goosey!"

Tom started to his feet; those playful words were a cruel waking. He stood before her painfully white, and there was a suppressed sob in his voice as he cried, in passionate reproach:

"Oh, Elsie! Elsie!"

She gave a wicked laugh at his distress.

"So you really were in earnest?" she demanded.

"You know that I was," he said. "You are cruel—cruel!"

"Ah, now you are angry—now you begin to hate me!"

"Never, Elsie! If you tore my heart and stamped on it, I could not hate you."

"But you are angry; and you said you could be patient."

"I could, if you cared for me only the least bit!"

"Oh, you selfish monster! There, Tom, kneel down again; you have shaken my flower out of your coat."

"No," said Tom, passionately; "I can't play now! This is dreadful earnest to me, Elsie, however great sport it may be to you."

"Then you refuse my gift?"

"I can't trifle now—don't ask it."

"And you mean to rush off and leave me?"

"I had better."

"Very well. If you refuse me my one little wish!"

"I'll stay if you want me to," cried Tom. "I'll do anything you bid me. But do be serious for a minute, Elsie. Just answer me one question."

"Only one? Will that satisfy you?"

"To set the matter at rest," pursued he. "I'll never trouble you again. I won't open my lips——"

"Then how shall I know what you want to ask?" she interrupted.

Tom fairly groaned.

"I do believe you are a witch, Elsie; one of those snow women in the old German stories."

"Lurlei—Lurlei!" she sang, flourishing the blossoms about his head.

Tom dashed off the flowers in a blind despair. The scene was growing too much for him to bear.

"Yes," he said, drearily, "I'll go—I'll go! I shan't trouble you again. I hope the day may never come when you will be sorry, Elsie."

He was so pale and trembled so violently, that she was absolutely terrified.

"Tom, don't look so!" she exclaimed. "I only wanted to tease you. I wouldn't have you leave me for the world; I should be wretched!"

"Now you are kind again! I will stay. I won't tire you with telling you of my love—"

"But I want to hear," interrupted Elsie.

"Oh, little child, it could do you no good! I suffer, Elsie, I suffer!"

"Tom, you're a goose—what you call a goney!"

"I know it, dear!"

"And you are just as blind as a bat."

"I suppose I am," he replied, dejectedly.

"And you're too stupid to live," cried Elsie, going into a great excitement. "Don't you know a woman can say one thing and mean another?"

"Yes," said Tom, with more energy, "I do know that. I know it too well."

"Great Mr. Wisdom!" said she mockingly. "Then can't you understand—don't you see?"

He looked at her in bewildered surprise. She was smiling tenderly in his face.

"Elsie!" he cried.

She let her hands fall in his.

"I don't want you to go," she whispered, "never—never!"

"You love me—you will marry me?"

She did not speak, but she made no resistance when Tom caught her to his heart and rained kisses on her face, utterly bewildered and unable to comprehend anything except that happiness had descended upon his long night at length.

But Elsie raised herself, pushed him off and said, with a dash of her old wickedness:

"I'll tease you to death, Tom!"

"I can't believe it!" he exclaimed. "Oh, say it once—say 'I love you!'"

"I do love you, Tom—there!"

In an instant she flashed up again, while he was covering her hands with kisses, crying:

"My little Elsie! My own at last!"

"No more sentiment," said she. "Let's be reasonable, Tom; the catastrophe has reached a climax."

But it was a long time before Tom Fuller could regain composure enough to talk at all coherently, or in what Elsie termed a sensible manner.

"It's so sudden," he said. "And to have so much happiness just when I thought the last rope was going out of my hand! Why, I feel like the fellow who clung all night to the side of a precipice, expecting every moment to be dashed down a thousand feet, and when daylight came found he had hung within a foot of the ground all the while!"

"The comparison is apt and delicious," said Elsie, laughing.

"And you love me! Only say it again, Elsie—just once!"

"I won't!" said she. "But I'll box your ears if you don't stop behaving like a crazy man."

Tom caught Elsie up in his arms and ran twice with her across the floor, paying no more attention to her cries and struggles than if she had been a baby.

"That's for punishment!" said Tom.

"Let me down! Please let me down!" pleaded Elsie. "I know you'll drop me! Oh, you hurt me, Tom!"

Tom placed her on the sofa and seated himself by her side. But she started away and ran upstairs, sending back a laugh of defiance.



CHAPTER XL.

TWO FACES IN THE GLASS.

When Elsie entered her boudoir, flushed with laughter and breathless with running, she threw herself on the azure couch, and gathering her ringlets in a mass between her hand and the warm cheek under which it was thrust, fell into a deeper train of thought than was usual to her.

"It's done, and I don't care. He loves me, and I must be loved. He's rich, generous, devoted, worships me and always will, that's one comfort. There'll be no one to halve his devotion or his money with me, no one to look glum if I want to be a little bit extravagant. Grant never refused me anything in his life, but I'm always afraid to ask half that I want. But with Tom everything will be my own. He won't ask a question. Such laces as I will have! As for cashmere shawls and silks, he shall get them for me by the dozens. Elizabeth won't say that such things are out of place then. I shall be a married woman, free of her and this old house too, free of everything, but—but——"

Elsie started up, breaking this selfish train of thought with the action.

"I wish she'd stop talking to me; I don't want to hear about it. Why won't she bear her trouble alone, if she will make trouble about what isn't to be helped? I'll have no more confidences with her, that's certain. It is like breaking one's heart up in little pieces. I don't want to keep secrets, but forget them; and I will, too, in spite of her. She shan't make me eternally miserable with her pining and remorse."

Elsie paused before a mirror as these thoughts rose in her mind and half broke from her lips. She was threading out her curls and trying the effect as they floated, like golden thistledown, over the roses of her cheek. All at once she started, and a look of pale horror stole to her face; the hand which had been wandering among her hair dropped to her side, turning cold and white as marble; the lips which had been just parted with an admiring smile of her own beauty, lost every trace of color. She still gazed intently into the glass, but not at herself. Beyond her pretty image, reflected from the distance, sat a man with a pen in his hand, as if just arrested in the act of writing. Rich shadows of crimson drapery lay around him, and a gleam of pure light from a half-closed upper blind fell across his head, lighting it up grandly.

It was a magnificent picture that Elsie gazed upon, far beyond her own image in the glass. But she only saw the man, without regard to his surroundings, and the very heart in her bosom turned sick with loathing or with fear.

It was North, looking at her through the open door, with a sneering smile on his lip—North in the very chamber of her brother's wife, quietly seated there as if he had been master of the house. For a full minute Elsie stood, forming a double picture in the glass with that bold, bad man, then her color came hotly back, and she turned upon him, brave with indignation.

"You here!" she said, advancing into the room till its crimson haze overwhelmed her. "You here, and in this chamber! Get up at once and begone. If my brother finds you under his roof he will shoot you on the spot."

"Never fear, pretty one," said North, with an evil gleam on his face. "Two can play at a game of that sort. If he made the first assault nothing would give me more pleasure. Self-defence is justifiable in law, and his will is made."

Elsie was trembling from head to foot, but she leaned one hand heavily on the table that he might not see her agitation.

"Man, man, you would not—you dare not meet my brother. You that have wronged him so!"

"Excuse me," said North, biting the feather of his pen and looking down on a sheet of note-paper on which he had been about to write; "I do not see this wrong so clearly. If a woman's heart will wander off in any forbidden direction, am I to blame because it flutters into my bosom? And if other hearts follow after——"

"Stop!" cried Elsie, stamping her little foot passionately on the carpet. "How dare you speak of a fraud so black, of treason so detestable! I am his sister, sir, and have something of his courage, frivolous as people think me. Persecute her or provoke me too far and I will tell him all."

"Indeed you would not," answered North, quietly.

"What should prevent me?"

"She will. You dare not break a solemn promise to her."

"I dare!" she almost shrieked, clenching her little hand in a paroxysm of rage. "I will, if ever you come here again."

"No; I think not. Women are weak creatures, but they generally find strength to keep secrets that bring ruin in the telling. You cannot be over anxious to see this proud brother of yours commit murder on——"

"On a villain—a household traitor—a—a——"

Elsie stopped for want of breath.

"Be quiet," said North, rising sternly and towering over her. "I have no dealings with you. One might as well reason with a handful of silkweed thrown upon the wind."

"But I will have something to say—everything to say. You have pursued her, plundered her, tortured her long enough. More than once she has been on the brink of discovery by your persistence in prowling over the grounds and from her attempts to conceal your rapacious extortions. All this must end."

"With all my heart; let the lady accede to my terms and I disappear."

"What are those terms?"

"I will write them, and your own fair hands shall give her the note."

Elsie did not answer, but her white lips closed firmly, and her blue eyes glittered like steel in the glow of a hot fire, as he dipped his pen deliberately in the bronze inkstand and began to write.

"There," he said, folding the note and presenting it to her with a princely air, as if her courage had impressed him with respect; "place this in her hands and she will know how to carry it out."

Elsie took the note and hid it away in the folds of her dress.

"Do not fail," he said, before taking his hat from the table.

"I will not," answered Elsie. "But these cruel visits must cease now and for ever. I will give the note only on this condition."

"Her answer will decide that. Now, good-bye."

He reached forth his hand, smiling pleasantly upon her; but she clenched hers, as if tempted to strike him for the insolent offer, and turned away biting her pale lips.

The hand, rejected with such disdain, fell towards the hat which North placed lightly on his head, casting one glance in the opposite mirror as he did so. Then, with the elastic step of a man retiring from a festival, he left the chamber, while Elsie looked after him with wondering eyes and parted lips, astonished by an audacity which was absolutely sublime.

The young creature stood with bated breath till his light footsteps died away in the nearest passage. She listened anxiously, but heard no door close or further movement of any kind. His exit was noiseless as his entrance had been.

When Elsie was left alone she sat down in the dim light of Elizabeth's room, pushed the hair back from her forehead and pressed both palms on her temples, where pain was throbbing like a pulse. She moaned and cried out under the sudden anguish, for resistance to suffering of any kind was killing to this young creature, and the reaction which followed that passionate outburst of feeling left her helpless as a child.



CHAPTER XLI.

SECRECY IMPOSED ON TOM FULLER.

During fifteen or twenty minutes Elsie sat pressing both hands to her head, while her eyes filled with tears, and her lips quivered like those of an infant grieved by some hurt it cannot understand. A voice from the outer passage aroused her. It was that of Tom Fuller, who had worked himself into a state of intense excitement from fear that his rough tenderness had mortally offended its object.

"Miss Mellen—Elsie, do come down and speak to a fellow. I'm sorry as can be that I made such a donkey of myself and frightened you away. Just give one peep out of the door, darling, to say that you will forgive me by-and-bye, and I never will kiss you again so long—that is if it's very disagreeable."

The door of Elsie's chamber opened and a face all flushed with tears, through which a smile was breaking, looked out on the repentant Tom.

"Oh, Elsie, darling, I didn't mean it, and you've been crying all this time. If somebody would take me out and lynch me I'd be obliged to 'em—upon my soul, I would."

"Never mind, Tom. I'm not angry—only such a fright, with crying," said Elsie, reaching her hand through the opening, which he forthwith covered with penitent kisses. "It's only a headache."

"A headache! dear me, what a brute I am. But wait a minute. I'll send right to the city for a dozen bottles of bay rum, or schnapps, or something of that sort."

"No, no," answered Elsie, laughing herself into semi-hysterics, "I shall be better in a minute."

"And come downstairs—will you come downstairs?"

"Yes, yes; wait a minute while I get the tangle out of my hair."

Tom retreated to the staircase and waited with his eyes fastened on Elsie's door like those of a good-natured watchdog. As for the girl herself, she bathed her face in cold water, chilling the pain away, straightened out her curls, twisted all her hair in a great knot back of the head, and came out softly, like a dear little forgiving nun, filled with compassion for other people's sins.

Tom followed her into the little morning-room where his confession had been made, and sat down on the sofa to which she retreated with great caution, as if she were afraid.

"Won't Bessie and Mellen be astonished," he insinuated; "I do wonder how they will look, when we tell 'em how it is."

"You won't have an opportunity of judging just at present," replied Elsie.

"Why won't I?"

"Because I don't choose you to say one word about the matter to any human being until I give you permission."

"Now, what is that for?" asked Tom, somewhat discomfited.

"Just because I prefer it," answered the young lady.

"But I want the whole world to know how happy I am," said he.

"Tom Fuller," cried Elsie, menacingly; "are you going to begin already to dispute and annoy me, after what I've just suffered, too?"

"Lord bless you, no! I am as sorry as can be."

"Then do exactly as I tell you," continued she, "and promise me not to mention what has happened till I give you leave."

"It's a little hard," said Tom, "not to be able to show how happy a fellow—why, I shall tell in spite of myself."

"If you don't promise, I'll take back every word I've said—"

"I will! I will!" he interrupted, terrified at the bare threat. "Don't be angry, pet; I'll do just as you say."

"That's a nice old Tom; now you are good and I love you."

"But you, won't keep it long, Elsie?"

"No, no; but just at present I choose; I told you what a terrible tyrant I should be."

"I like it," said Tom, with the thorough enjoyment of her mastery, which only an immense creature like him can feel in a pretty woman's graceful tyranny.

"So much the better for you," said Elsie.

"Oh, little girl, we will be as happy as the day is long!" cried he.

"And you'll never contradict me?"

"Never!"

"And I shall have my own way more and more every day?"

"Well," said Tom, thoughtfully; "I don't see how you could easily; but you may try."

Elsie laughed; his oddity amused her.

"You are a perfect ogre of a lover," cried she. "What a head of hair!"

"It never will keep in order," said Tom, pressing down the shaggy locks with both hands.

"Let them alone," said Elsie; "you look more like a lion that way; I like it."

She was gracious and playful as a kitten, but Tom's happiness was disturbed all too quickly by the entrance of Victoria, crying:

"Missis horse runned off wid her; but she y'arnt hurt; she's a comin' in de carriage."

Out of the room Tom and Elsie went, anxious to learn the full meaning of her words.



CHAPTER XLII.

THE RIDE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

The husband and wife galloped joyously on for miles and miles in the soft light of that delicious afternoon; with every step the gloom and the shadows seemed to lift themselves from each heart, till they were cordial and gay almost as Elsie herself.

These few happy hours, soon to be dimly overclouded, were so bright and sweet, that even in the midst of after trouble, their memory would come up like fragments of exquisite melody, haunting those two people.

Whatever the secret was which oppressed Elizabeth, its recollection was put aside for the time, and Mellen gave himself up to the pleasure of the hour with all the intensity of a nature which enjoys and suffers so sharply, that even trifles can make for it a keener excitement than great happiness or acute suffering bring to more placid characters.

"You are not tired, Bessie?"

"Tired, no! I could ride on forever!"

"See how the waters shine in the sun; they seem so full of joyous, buoyant life, that it gives one strength to watch them."

Elizabeth could fully share in his enthusiasm, and she allowed her poetical fancy full play, indulging in beautiful comparisons and earnest talk, which unveiled a phase of her nature seldom revealed except to those who knew her well.

"I never heard a woman talk as you can," said Mellen, admiringly; "we shall have you writing books, or coming out as a genius yet."

Elizabeth laughed gaily.

"You need not be afraid; I know you would not like it."

"Indeed I should not; it springs from my selfishness I know, but I like to keep your real self entirely for my own life."

The afternoon was wearing away when they turned homewards, but still retained its brightness and beauty, as their hearts kept the new glow which warmed them.

They galloped down the long hills and through the level groves till they were nearly home.

The sunlight faded—a strong breeze swept up from the ocean, and a sudden cloud obscured the sun; one of those abrupt changes so common in autumn fell upon the sea, robbing the day of its loveliness, and making it so cold and leaden that it was more than dreary from contrast with the glorious morning.

They were near the gates which led into their own domain, when a man came running swiftly towards them, and as he passed looked up in Elizabeth's face.

Whether her horse was frightened by the stranger rushing so abruptly past him, or whether she gave some nervous jerk to the reins, was not apparent; but a sharp cry rang from her lips, the horse made a simultaneous spring, and though a good rider, Elizabeth was unseated and thrown from her saddle. Mellen sprang from his horse and bent over his wife.

"I am not hurt," she said faintly, "not hurt."

The old woman who lived in a little house at the entrance of the grounds which they had transformed into a lodge, came out at that moment, and being a Yankee woman of energy and resources, caught Elizabeth's horse, and was ready to lend a helping hand wherever it might be required.

While this woman led the two horses within the gates and fastened them, Mellen raised his wife and carried her into the lodge. She was deathly pale and trembling violently, though in reply to his anxious inquiries, she repeated the same answer:

"I am not hurt—not at all hurt."

She drank a glass of water, lay down for a few moments on a cane-bottomed settee, which the room boasted as its principal elegance, then insisted upon rising.

Mellen sent the woman on to the house, with orders for the people to send down the carriage, as he would not have permitted Elizabeth to walk, even if her strength had seemed more equal to the exertion than it really was.

"Did that man frighten the horse?" he asked, when she appeared composed enough to speak. "The whole thing was over before I knew it—even before I saw him clearly he was gone—you cried out—the horse started—"

"No!" she answered with feverish earnestness, "the horse started first—I should not have shrieked but for that—why should I?"

"The scoundrel must have frightened the horse; did you recognise him?"

"He was running fast, you know, and darted into the woods so suddenly."

"I should like to have lain hands on him!"

"He meant no harm. Gipsy has grown shy of late. Don't think about the matter—there is no mischief done."

"But there might have been great danger; I cannot bear even now to think of it."

Elizabeth closed her eyes wearily; her recent elation of spirits was quite gone. She looked so pale and ill that Mellen could not feel satisfied that she had suffered no injury.

"You are sure that the fall has not hurt you, Bessie?"

"Quite sure," she answered, in the same changed voice; "don't trouble yourself about me. I was only frightened."

Mellen could not understand her manner, but he said nothing more. She lay back on the settee, and closed her eyes while he stood there regarding and wondering whether she lay thus from weakness or to escape further conversation.

At last the woman returned and announced that the carriage would be down immediately.

"That are man frightened the horse," she said; "I was a looking out of the window—it's my belief he's a hanging about the place for no good."

"Have you ever seen him before?" asked Mellen.

"Why, I think it's the chap you was a talking with one day, Mrs. Mellen," said the woman.

"I thought you did not know him?" observed Mellen, turning quickly towards his wife.

She sat upright, gave him one of her quick, indignant glances, and answered coldly:

"I simply said he ran by me so fast I could not tell whether I knew him or not."

"Wal, it was the same fellow," pursued Mrs. Green; "I'm sure of that."

"Do you remember?" questioned Mellen.

"I do not," replied Elizabeth haughtily.

Mellen colored and bit his lip, but he saw the woman looking curiously at them and said no more.

"I wish, Mrs. Green," he said, "you would take great care to close the gates at night; we are near enough the city for dangerous characters to stray down here."

"Law, sar, we're just as careful as can be. There ain't a night we don't shut and lock the gates. I hope we ain't a coming to no blame; I'm a lone woman and Jem's a cripple. It would be hard on us."

Mellen tried to stop her flood of protestations and appeals, but she insisted upon telling the whole story of every misery she had endured during her life, before she would pause in her plea of sorrow for an instant. By that time the carriage fortunately arrived and they were able to escape the sound of her tongue.

The husband and wife drove somewhat silently home. Mellen was very anxious about Elizabeth, who had recovered her usual serenity of temper, and could do her best to reassure him, though the color would not come back to her face, nor the startled look die out of her eyes.

When they reached the house, Elsie was standing on the steps, and ran down to the carriage full of alarm, having just learned that Elizabeth had met with some accident, while Tom came forward more anxious still.

"Are you hurt? are you hurt?" demanded Elsie.

Elizabeth assured her that she was not in the least injured, tried to laugh at Mellen's solicitude, but looked very nervous still.

"You are sure you are not hurt?" urged Tom.

"Perfectly sure."

"Maybe I'd better run after a doctor though?"

"Nonsense, Tom," she said, a little impatiently, "when I tell you I am not hurt in the least."

Tom and Elsie cried out together to know how the accident had happened, but Mellen gave a very brief explanation, while Elizabeth entered the hall and sat down in a chair to rest.

Tom ran to bring her a glass of wine which she did not want, and they all worried her with their solicitude, till it required great patience to restrain herself from breaking away from them rudely and rushing into the solitude she so much needed.

"If I had hold of the creature that scared the horse, I'd mill him," cried Tom, irately.

"I don't suppose he was to blame," said Elsie.

"Of course not," added Elizabeth; "of course not."

Mellen made no remark; he was watching Elizabeth, who still looked pale and oppressed.

"Do you feel better?" he asked.

"Much, I assure you; don't be frightened about me."

"Bessie is such a heroine!" cried Elsie.

Elizabeth gave one of the irritated looks with which she had sometimes regarded Elsie of late, but made no remark.

"She's a trump!" said Tom; "that's all there is about it."

Elsie laughed.

"I shall go up to my room and lie down," Elizabeth said; "an hour's rest will restore me completely."

Mellen assisted her upstairs and Elsie accompanied them, quite ready to accept Elizabeth's assurance that she was not injured, and doing her best to make them both laugh.

"Accidents seem the order of the day," she said; "it's lucky for us, Bessie, that we always have some one near to help us."

"Yes," was the weary reply.

"Do you think you could go to sleep now?" Mellen asked.

"Perhaps so," she said; "I will try, at all events."

"The best thing for you," said Elsie. "I'll sit with you a little while, and be still as a mouse."

Elsie was never sorry to escape from sickness or unpleasant occurrences of any kind, and could be of no more use in trouble than a canary-bird or a hot-house blossom. But just now she had an object in remaining.

The moment Mellen had withdrawn, she took North's letter from its hiding-place, and thrust it into Elizabeth's hand.

"Thank heaven I've got rid of it at last," she exclaimed, shaking the flounces of her dress as if the note had left some contamination behind.

"How did you get it?" faltered Elizabeth, looking at the folded paper with strained eyes, as if it had been an asp which she held by the neck.

"Oh, Elizabeth, he was in this very room."

"Here! here! Great heavens! why will no one shoot this man?" exclaimed the tortured woman.

"I thought of it, upon my word I did," said Elsie. "But, then, I don't know how to fire off a pistol!"

"How madly we are talking!" said Elizabeth, pressing one hand to her throbbing forehead.

Elsie pressed her own soft palm upon the strained hand, striving to soothe the evident pain. But Elizabeth shrunk away from the half caress, and said, in a low, husky voice:

"Leave me, Elsie, leave me; I will deal with this alone."

The young girl went away with a sense of relief. Then Elizabeth started up in bed, tore open the hateful note, and read it through.



CHAPTER XLIII.

KINDLY ANXIETIES.

Elsie went in search of Tom; who was walking up and down the veranda, looking anxious still, but his face cleared when he saw Elsie, like a granite rock lighted up by a sudden flood of sunshine.

"How is she?" he asked.

"Oh, a great deal better; she is going to sleep; that is, if Grant will be sensible enough to leave her alone; you men are dreadfully stupid creatures."

"Yes, dear," replied Tom, meekly.

"Well!" said Elsie; "you might show a little spirit at least."

"I thought I was to agree with you!"

"There is nothing I hate so much; if you don't contradict me, I shall die certainly."

"Then, since you want the truth, I must say I think you are a little hard on men in general."

"And you in particular, perhaps?"

"Sometimes you are."

"Indeed!" said she, tossing her curls. "Very well, Mr. Fuller, if you have such dreadful opinions as that, you had better have nothing more to do with me; I'll go away."

"Oh, don't; I didn't mean it," cried Tom, in a fright.

Elsie laughed at his penitence and teased him more unmercifully than ever, but Tom could bear it now with undisturbed equanimity. She had given him happiness, lifted his soul into such a flood of light as he had never thought to reach in this world, and his state of rapturous content utterly defied description.

They walked up and down the long colonnade, jesting and merry, Tom unable to think or talk of anything long except his new bliss, saying all sorts of absurd things in spite of Elsie's expostulations.

"I shall go in at once, if you don't behave more sensibly," she said, snatching her hand from him, as he tried to kiss it. "What would Grant think if he happened to come down."

"Oh, dear," sighed Tom; "how long before you will let me tell him; this having to steal one's happiness is dreadful."

"Oh, you selfish, insatiable monster! not an hour ago you promised to be perfectly content if I would only say I might care for you sometimes, and there now you go!"

"I am a selfish wretch," said Tom, struck with remorse.

"And selfishness is such a dreadful failing," rejoined Elsie.

"It is, I know it."

"In a man."

"Oh!" exclaimed Tom, a little astonished at the close of her sentence.

"Yes," continued Elsie; "It's a woman's privilege."

"It seems to me," said Tom, eagerly, "that women claim a great many privileges, and very odd ones, sometimes."

"Isn't it our privilege!" demanded Elsie, belligerently. "Do you mean to deny that we haven't a right to be just as selfish and whimsical as we please, and that it's your duty to submit?"

"If you'll let me kiss your hand I'll acknowledge anything you desire," said artful Tom.

"Then I won't, and if you value your peace in the slightest degree, I should advise you to behave more decorously."

Elsie drew herself up, and looked as prim as a little Quakeress, who had never indulged a worldly thought in all her days.

"I wish you would come into the music-room and sing to me," said Tom, struck with a bright idea.

"Nonsense, you don't care about music?"

"Indeed I do; your voice is like an angel's."

"You couldn't tell whether I was singing something from Trovatore or Yankee Doodle?" replied Elsie.

Tom rubbed his forehead again, fairly bewildered; but whether he knew anything about music as a science or not, he listened to Elsie's singing with his heart, and very sweet music it was.

"You shall teach me," he said.

"A hopeless task, Tom! And you really have some voice if you only had any ear."

"Oh," said Tom, putting up his hands, as if taking her words literally.

"Oh," said Elsie, with a shriek, "they prove your race beyond a doubt; don't fear."

Tom laughed, good-natured as ever.

"But come in," he urged; "you will get cold, with nothing on your head."

"You are not to become a Molly," said Elsie.

"I won't," replied Tom, "nor a Betty, nor any other atrocity; only just come in, like a duck."

Elsie allowed herself to be persuaded for once, and they went into the house, seating themselves at the piano in the solitary music-room, enjoying the hour after their own fashion, with no apparent perception of the shadows which lay upon the hearts of the husband and wife in that darkened home.

Some time after Elsie had gone, Mellen returned to his wife's chamber. She lay with one hand partially over her face, but was watching him all the while; there was an eager expression in her eyes, as if she longed to have him go away, but was afraid to express the wish.

"Do you feel sleepy, Bessie?" he asked.

"I think so," she replied; "don't let me keep you shut up here any longer—go down and play chess with Elsie."

"You will come down after you are rested?"

"Oh, certainly; I will be down to tea."

He kissed her and turned to leave the room.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, huskily.

"I have some letters to write; I shall go to the library in order to do it in peace—Elsie is certain not to come there."

"Good-bye," said Elizabeth, speaking with hysterical sharpness, which jarred a little on Mellen's quick ear.



CHAPTER XLIV.

ALMOST DEFIANCE.

He was gone and the door closed; Elizabeth raised herself on her elbow and remained listening till the sound of his steps died upon the stairs, then she threw aside the shawls he had flung over her, and sprang to her feet.

"Not a day's rest," she exclaimed, "not an hour's—not one! I must go out and answer the demands of this villain. If Grantley should meet me—I don't care—I must have it out! I shall go mad in the end—I shall go mad!"

She wrung her hands in a sort of fury, and paced up and down the room with quick, impatient steps.

"I might go now," she said at length; "he is in the library—it is growing dark, too."

She stopped before one of the windows and looked out; the afternoon was darkening under the mustering clouds and a heavy mist that had swept up from the ocean.

"Coming nearer and nearer," muttered Elizabeth, pointing to the waving columns of fog as if she were addressing some unseen person; "just so the danger and the darkness gather closer and closer about my life!"

She turned away, urged forward by the courage with which a brave person is impelled to meet a difficulty at once, threw a shawl about her and left the room.

She ran through the hall to a back staircase seldom used, and which led into a passage from whence she could pass at once into the thickest part of the shrubbery.

At the foot of the stairs she paused an instant, listened then with a quick, choking sigh, opened the door and hurried away.

Seated in his library, Mellen found it impossible to fulfil his task of letter writing. He could not account for the feelings which crept over him. The quiet content of the afternoon was all gone; and in its place came, not only anxiety about his wife, but a host of wild suspicions so vague and absurd, that he was angry with the folly which forced him to insult his reason by dwelling upon them.

The confinement of the house became absolutely hateful to him. He opened one of the French windows, stepped out upon the veranda and walked up and down in the gathering gloom, looking across the waters where the fog shifted to and fro, like ghostly shadows sent up to veil the ever restless ocean.

At last Mellen passed down the steps and entered the grounds; he was some distance from the house when he heard a sound like a person moaning aloud in distress.

He looked about—the mist and the coming night made it impossible to distinguish objects with any distinctness—but he saw the garments of a woman fluttering among the trees.

He darted forward; with what impulse he could hardly have told; but the woman had disappeared, whether warned by his hasty movement or urged forward by some other motive, he could not tell.

The thought in his mind was—

"That is my wife, Elizabeth."

Then the folly of this suspicion struck him; not an hour before he had left his wife almost asleep in her room, how was it possible that she could be there, wandering about like a demented creature in the misty twilight?

"I will go up to her room," he thought; "I will cure myself of these absurd fancies."

He entered the house and ran upstairs quickly, opened the door of his wife's room and looked in. She was standing before the fire—at the noise of the opening door she thrust something into her bosom—a paper it looked like to Mellen—then she turned and stood silently regarding him.

"You are up," he said.

"Yes," she replied, a little coldly. "Did you want anything?"

"Only to see if you slept—if you were coming down soon."

"I shall be down directly."

He hesitated an instant, then he said:

"Were you not in the grounds just now?"

Elizabeth did not answer; she had let her hair down and was beginning to arrange it, shading her pale face with the floating tresses.

"Were you?" he inquired again.

"What did you ask?" she demanded.

He repeated the question.

"It does not seem quite probable," she said, walking away towards the mirror.

"I thought that I saw you there only a few minutes since," he said.

Elizabeth was busy lighting a candle; after she had succeeded, she replied:

"If you had seen me in the grounds would it have been so very singular."

"No; only as I left you lying down——"

She interrupted him with an impatient gesture.

"I am tired of this," she said passionately. "What is it you wish to know—what do you suspect?"

"Nothing, Elizabeth; I only thought it was foolish if not dangerous to go out on such a night."

He was ashamed of himself now, but she did not offer to help him in his dilemma. She stood silent and still, as if waiting for him to leave the room.

"We will wait tea for you," he said.

"Very well."

As he passed near the sofa his foot got entangled in a shawl which lay on the floor; he picked it up—it was heavy with damp.

"I was given to understand that you had not been out," he exclaimed, holding it towards her.

For an instant Elizabeth looked confused, then she snatched the shawl from his hand, crying angrily:

"Well, sir, I was out—now are you satisfied?"

"Always deception," he said, "even in trifles."

"Of course," she exclaimed, in the same passionate tone, "you make it necessary. I went out because these nervous attacks make me feel as if I were choking—you are so suspicious, you see something to suspect in the most trivial action."

"So you——"

"Told you a lie," she added, when he hesitated; "well, let it go at that. Are you through with this examination—have you any more questions to ask?"

"That tone—that look, Elizabeth; you are not like yourself!"

"No wonder—blame yourself for it. I cannot and will not endure this system of espionage—I will have my liberty—that you may understand!"

Mellen's passionate temper flamed up in his face, but he controlled it resolutely and did not speak.

"Be good enough to say all you wish and have done with the subject," she continued in the same irritating tone, utterly unlike her old method of parleying or enduring his evil words.

"I have nothing to ask," he said; "you are nervous and excited—we won't quarrel to-night."

He went out of the room, Elizabeth fell upon her knees by the couch, and groaned aloud.

"Oh! I am no longer myself! What wonder! what wonder!"

She drew a letter from her bosom and began to read it, moaning and crying as she read; then she threw it in the fire, stood watching till the last fragments were consumed, then sinking into a chair, buried her face in her hands. She remained a long time in that despondent attitude, her whole frame shaking at intervals with nervous tremors, and her breath struggling upwards in shuddering gasps.

There was a knock at the door at length.

"Who is there?" she called sharply; "what do you want?"

"Miss Elsie wished to know if you were coming to tea," said a servant. "There is a gentleman come to see Mr. Mellen from the city, ma'am."

Elizabeth started up and went on dressing; as was usual with her after one of those strange excitements, a sudden fever crimsoned her cheeks and brightened her eyes.

She went downstairs and received her guest with affable grace, which contrasted painfully with her late excitement, and before the evening was over, seemed to have forgotten the hasty words she had spoken to Mellen, and was like her old self again.



CHAPTER XLV.

THE TIGER IN HIS DEN.

IT was a small room, in one of those mysterious hotels in the narrow streets near the Battery, which appear to be usually appropriated to foreigners, and about which dark-whiskered, sallow-faced individuals may be seen lingering at all hours of the day, their very faded, seedy appearance calling up images of duns, scant dinners, and a whole train of petty evils.

The chamber was small, but not uncomfortably furnished, though the articles had originally been of the tawdry fashion which such places affect, and had probably not been new by several stages when first established there.

The remains of a fire smouldered in the little grate, but the ashes were strewn over the hearth. The torn and frayed carpet was littered with loose cards, and the whole apartment was in hopeless confusion which added greatly to its original discomfort.

In the centre of the room was a small table covered with empty champagne bottles and glasses, standing in half dried puddles of wine, with a bronze receiver overflowing with cigar ashes all huddled untidily together, and giving repulsive evidence of a long night of dissipation.

The low bedstead had its moth-eaten, miserable attempt at a canopy swept back and heaped carelessly on the dirty counterpane by a man in a restless slumber, just as he had thrown himself down, ready dressed, long after daylight peered in through the broken shutters.

His appearance was in keeping with the room; a soiled dressing-gown, that had once been very elegant, was wrapt carelessly about him; his black hair streamed over the pillow, and gave an almost ghastly effect to his face, as he lay in that troubled dream, already pale and worn from many sleepless nights.

It was a handsome face, but one from which a physiognomist would have shrunk, had he seen it in its hard truthfulness, without a gleam of the fascination which it was capable of expressing in guarded moments and under more fortunate circumstances.

The sleeper was on the sunny side of mid-age, but his countenance was one of those which carries no idea of youth with it, even in early boyhood it was so marked by craft and recklessness that nothing of the abandon of fresh feeling ever left an imprint there.

It was nearly noon, but he had not stirred or opened his eyes; once or twice the dilapidated chambermaid, who performed a slatternly duty in that part of the building, opened the door and peeped in, but her entrance had not served to arouse him, and she knew better than to venture upon any further attempt.

Suddenly he woke from a troubled dream and looked about him.

"I dreamed they were railing me up in a coffin," he muttered; "pah, how plainly I heard them driving in the nails!"

He turned upon his pillow with a shuddering oath, but that instant there came a knock at the door, this time quick and impatient—it was the first summons which had caused him that unquiet vision.

"Come in," he called out; "the door isn't locked."

The man raised himself indolently on the bed and looked towards the door—it opened slowly and a woman entered the room.

Her face was concealed under a heavy veil, but the man seemed to recognize her at once, for he started up and gave a muttered execration as he caught sight of his untidy appearance in the little mirror.

Then he hurried towards his visitor, who had closed the door and stood leaning against it.

"You have come," he exclaimed; "so kind of you—excuse the disorder here—I did not know it was so late."

He held out his hand with a smile, but she turned away with a gesture of abhorrence which had no effect upon him save that it deepened the smile to an ugly sneer.

She threw back the long veil and displayed her face—the visitor was Elizabeth Mellen.

"Pray be seated," he went on, placing a chair near the hearth; "this room looks dreadful, but I was up late and overslept myself—had I dreamed you would favor me with so early a visit, I should have been prepared."

She glanced at the table, which bore evidence of the manner in which the night had been passed, and said abruptly, pointing towards the cards scattered on the carpet:

"Did those things keep you wakeful?"

He smiled complacently.

"Nothing ever escapes your eye, dear lady. Well, I won't deny the fact—we were playing cards a little. I was not absolutely fortunate," he answered, with another disagreeable smile; "but you know the old proverb—'Lucky in love, unlucky at cards,' so I never expect much from the mischievous paste-boards."

Her face flushed painfully to the very waves of her hair, then grew whiter than before; she sank to a seat from positive inability to stand.

"I have brought you no money," she said, abruptly, looking in his face with sudden defiance.

His brows contracted in an ugly frown, though his lips still retained its smile—he looked dangerous.

"That is bad, very," he said; "I wonder you should have come all the way here to bring these unpleasant tidings!"

Elizabeth did not answer; she had drawn towards the hearth and was pushing the ashes back with the point of her shoe, gazing drearily into the dying embers.

"You received my letter?" he asked.

"Yes—don't send in that way again, or let yourself be seen. You frightened me so that I fell from my horse."

"How sad! I should never have forgiven myself had any harm resulted from it," he said, so gravely, that one could not tell whether he was in earnest or mocking her. "You were not hurt—nothing unpleasant occurred! I despaired of seeing you in the grounds after that, and so went away."

She started up in sudden passion, goaded by his attempt at sympathy beyond the power of prudence or self-control.

"I wish I had been hurt," she exclaimed. "I could have borne being maimed for life had I seen the brute's hoofs trampling you down as I fell."

He seated himself opposite her and looked earnestly in her face. These bitter words did not seem to excite his anger—he was smiling still, and his face wore a look of admiration which appeared to excite her still more desperately.

"You are so beautiful in one of these moods," he said; "don't restrain yourself. What a Medea you would make!"

She looked at him with a glance which had the menace of a hunted animal brought suddenly to bay, and ready from very despair to defend itself—in moments like that many a desperate woman has stained her soul with crime—but her companion betrayed no uneasiness.

"You don't like me to say complimentary things to you," he said; "it is unkind to deprive me even of that pleasure."

"I have no time to waste," she said, controlling herself by a strong effort, and speaking in a cold, measured tone. "I came to tell you that you must wait—I can't give you the money to-day—if you were successful with those cards you can afford to be patient."

"My dear friend," returned he, "you know how anxious I am—how I desire to put the ocean between me and this accursed country."

"You will not go when you get the money," she said; "you will drink, gamble—leave yourself without a penny."

"So harsh always in your judgments," he returned, deprecatingly.

"I have no hope of escaping you," she went on; "but I have one consolation—you are ruining me, and that will be your own destruction! My husband suspects me—watches me—the day he discovers a shadow of the truth, there is an end to these extortions."

"Don't speak so angrily—my dear lady! I hardly think your husband would refuse to listen to reason—your proud men will do a great deal to procure silence where a lady is concerned."

"You know that he would not be silent! With his home once broken up, his peace destroyed, he would be utterly careless of the world's knowledge—his wrongs and his revenge would lead him to desperate measures."

"Is it possible? What an unpleasant character! Well, well, we must take pains that he is not enlightened—that is the way—you see how very simple it is."

"I warn you, this is the last money I shall give you for years," she said; "it is only from having these stocks in my hands that I am able to do it now."

"My dear friend, you forget; your husband may give you more stocks," he returned, with a laugh which made her shrink with abhorence.

"Mr. Forbes has promised me the money this week—that will be in time for the steamer."

"How coldly you betray anxiety to have me gone!" he said; "it is really cruel."

"I have no idea that you will go," she returned; "you will spend the money—you will demand more—my husband will discover it. But at least I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that there is no place secret enough, no land distant enough to guard your life safely after that."

He only received her passionate words with a shrug of the shoulders and a deprecating wave of the hand.

"But it is so sad to go into exile alone," he said; "if I could take with me——"

"Oh! you are such a base, miserable coward!" she broke in. "Such a pitiful, dastardly wretch! Don't frown at me—I have never been afraid of you—I am not now! I tell you the hour of retribution will come!"

His face never changed, he made her a gracious bow and said pleasantly:

"You are inclined to do the prophetess this morning—but don't be such a fearful Cassandra, I beg."

She rose from her chair and folded her shawl about her.

"I need stay here no longer," she said, "I have told you what I came to say."

"Don't be so cruel as to run away so soon," he pleaded; "give my poor room the glory of your presence a little longer. You see to what I was driven before I could force myself to trouble you again. These are not proper apartments for a gentleman; you will admit I had an excuse. The whole thing is miserably humiliating."

"I shall be here on Monday," said Elizabeth, ignoring his excuses. "I shall have the money ready for you, but I will not bring it—those letters must be first placed in my hands."

"Ah! you are going to drive a hard bargain, I see."

"You have evaded so often, cheated me so often; I have given you thousands of dollars—this is the last—take it—enough to make you comfortable for years if you are careful; but the letters come into my possession first, and that paper too."

"You really mean to have your freedom, do you?" he asked, jestingly; "to sweep me out of your life for ever; that is hard."

"Don't think to cheat me; neither your forged writing or any pretence will answer here. I tell you I am desperate now—you can't force me down a step farther."

"You are a magnificent woman!" he exclaimed; "a wonderful woman! I don't believe the country could boast another such."

She turned away.

"Now you are angry. But let it pass."

"Remember what I have said," retorted Elizabeth. "I tell you I am desperate now! At least I shall have placed it out of your power to injure any one but myself. I have reached that point when I will have freedom from your persecutions or drag the ruin down on my own head while crushing you."

She was in terrible earnest—he was a sufficient judge of character to see that. It was in her nature to grow so utterly desperate that, whatever her secret might prove, she would find the courage to give it up to her husband and madly urge on the crisis of her fate in all its blackness and horror, rather than endure the slavery and suspense in which she had lived.

"There will be no need of all this," he said. "Place in my hands the sum you have promised, and I will at once put it out of my own power to harm you or yours. After all," he continued, with another sneering laugh, "I am selling my claim much too cheaply; twenty-five thousand dollars is a pitiful little sum, considering what I give up."

"You can get no more—you cannot frighten me! If you betrayed everything you would ruin your hopes of a single penny. I tell you my husband would perish rather than buy your silence. I know him—he might shoot you down like a dog, but would never pay gold to bind your vicious tongue."

"Dear friend, I infinitely prefer transacting this little business with you," he said, laughing again. "We shall not quarrel; for your sake I will content myself with the twenty-five thousand dollars, but I warn you I cannot wait after Monday."

"I tell you it will be ready on that day."

"The letters and that troublesome little document shall be placed in your hands—I promise on——"

She interrupted him contemptuously: "There is nothing you could swear by that would make the oath worth hearing."

The man bowed, as if she had paid him a compliment. He was so utterly hardened that even her burning scorn could not affect him.

"Don't write to me, don't send to me," she said; "it will only be dangerous—more so for you than for me—remember that."

"I can trust you; I have the utmost faith in your word."

She gathered her shawl about her and moved towards the door.

"Are you going already?"

"That bracelet!" she said, with a sudden thought. "You parted with it of course—could you get it back?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I received your note concerning it; we will see—very doubtful I fear. But when I am once gone—even if your husband does discover it—there will be no trouble."

She turned her back on him. He started forward to open the door for her, his hand touched hers on the knob, she started as if a scorpion had stung her, but he only cast a smile in her face and allowed her to pass out.