elled, you will then comprehend something of the desperation that
makes me endure even this crucifixion of soul; and in that day, when
you discover the fugitive lover, you will blush for the taunts aimed at
a defenceless and sorely-stricken woman."

"Nevertheless, I bend my energies henceforth to his capture and
punishment."

"Because he is my lover? Or because he may be a criminal? Ask that
question of your honor. Answer it to your own conscience, and to the
noble heart of the trusting woman you asked to become your wife. Mr.
Dunbar, you must leave me now; my strength is almost spent."

Baffled, exasperated, he approached the table and took something from
his vest-pocket.

"I hold my honor flawless, and with the sanction of my conscience I
prefer to answer to you--you alone--because he is your lover, I will
have his life."

She smiled, and her eyes drooped; but there was strange emphasis in her
words as she clasped her hands:

"God keep my lover now and forever. Mr. Dunbar, when you discover him,
I have no fear that you will harm one hair in his dear head."

"If you knew all you have cost me, you might understand why I will
never forego my compensation. I bide my time; but I shall win. You
asked me, as a special favor, to preserve and secure for you something
which you held very valuable. Because no wish of yours can ever be
forgotten, I have complied with your request and brought you this
'precious souvenir' of a tender past."

He tore away the paper wrapping, and held toward her the meerschaum
pipe, then dropped it on the table as though it burned his fingers.

At sight of it, a sudden faintness made the girl reel, and she put her
hand to her throat, as if to loosen a throttling touch. Her eyes
filled, and in a whirling mist she seemed to see the beloved face of
the father long dead, of the gay, beautiful young brother who had
wrought her ruin. Weakness overpowered her, and sinking to her knees,
she drew the pipe closer, laid it against her cheek, folded her arms
over it on the table and bowed her head.

What a host of mocking phantoms leaped through the portals of the
Bygone--babbling of the glorious golden dawn that was whitening into a
radiant morning, when the day-star fell back below the horizon, and
night devoured the new-born day. Memory comes, sometimes, in the guise
of an angel, wearing fragrant chaplets, singing us the perfect
harmonies of a hallowed past; but oftener still, as a fury scourging