eved her to be the most beautiful girl he had
ever beheld. He treated her always as though she were a queen, and he
her humblest slave.

Slowly but surely the sweet poison worked its way; the day came when
that graceful, subtle flattery was necessary to the very existence of
Beatrice Earle. There was much to excuse her; the clever, artful man
into whose hands she had fallen was her first admirer--the first who
seemed to remember she was no longer a child, and to treat her with
deferential attention. Had she been, as other girls are, surrounded by
friends, accustomed to society, properly trained, prepared by the
tender wisdom of a loving mother, she would never have cast her proud
eyes upon Hugh Fernely; she would never have courted the danger or run
the risk.

As it was, while Dora preferred solitude, and nourished a keen dislike
to her husband in her heart--while Ronald yielded to obstinate pride,
and neglected every duty--while both preferred the indulgence of their
own tempers, and neglected the children the Almighty intrusted to them,
Beatrice went on to her fate.

It was so sad a story, the details so simple yet so pitiful. Every
element of that impulsive, idealistic nature helped on the tragedy.
Hugh Fernely understood Beatrice as perhaps no one else ever did. He
idealized himself. To her at length he became a hero who had met with
numberless adventures--a hero who had traveled and fought, brave and
generous. After a time he spoke to her of love, at first never
appearing to suppose that she could care for him, but telling her of
his own passionate worship how her face haunted him, filled his dreams
at night, and shone before him all day--how the very ground she stood
upon was sacred to him--how he envied the flowers she touched--how he
would give up everything to be the rose that died in her hands. It was
all very pretty and poetical, and he knew how to find pretty,
picturesque spots in the woods where the birds and the flowers helped
him to tell his story.

Beatrice found it very pleasant to be worshiped like a queen; there was
no more monotony for her. Every morning she looked forward to seeing
Hugh--to learning more of those words that seemed to her like sweetest
music. She knew that at some time or other during the day she would
see him; he never tired of admiring her beauty. Blameworthy was the
sad mother with her stern doctrines, blameworthy the proud, neglectful
father, that she knew not how w