ver more be wife of mine."

"Be pitiful," said Valentine, for Dora was weeping bitterly now; all
her fire and passion, all her angry jealousy, had faded before his
wrath.

"I am pitiful," he replied. "Heaven knows I pity her. I pity myself.
We Earles love honorable women when we love at all. I will escort you
to your house, Miss Charteris, and then Mrs. Earle and myself will make
our arrangements."

In her sweet, womanly pity, Valentine bent down and kissed the
despairing face.

"Try to believe that you are wrong and mistaken, Mrs. Earle," she said
gently. "I had no thought save to be your friend."

They spoke no word as they passed through the pretty grounds. Valentine
was full of pity for her companion, and of regret for her own share in
that fatal morning's work.

When Ronald reached the cluster of trees again, Dora was not there.
Just at that moment he cared but little whither she had gone. His
vexation and sorrow seemed almost greater than he could bear.

Chapter XIV

The passion and despair of that undisciplined heart were something
painful to see. Reason, sense, and honor, for a time were all dead.
If Dora could have stamped out the calm beauty of Valentine's
magnificent face, she would have done so. Ronald's anger, his bitter
contempt, stung her, until her whole heart and soul were in angry
revolt, until bitter thoughts raged like a wild tempest within her.
She could not see much harm in what she had done; she did not quite see
why reading her own husband's letter, or listening to a private
conversation of his was a breach of honor. She thought but little at
the time of what she had done; her heart was full of anger against
Ronald and Valentine. She clasped her hands angrily after Mrs.
Charteris had kissed her, crying out that she was false, and had lured
Ronald from her. Any one passing her on the high-road would have
thought her mad, seeing the white face, the dark, gleaming eyes, the
rigid lips only opening for moans and cries that marred the sweet
silence. He should keep his word; never--come what might never should
he look upon her fair face again--the face he had caressed so often and
thought so fair. She would go away--he was quite tired of her, and of
her children, too. They would tease him and intrude upon him no more.
Let him go to the fair, false woman, who had pretended to pity her.

The little nurse-maid, a simple peasant girl, looked on in mute
amazement when her mistre