eaven of her fate, when I saw,
calmly regarding us, Sir Peter Le Marchant.

In another moment he stood beside his wife, smiling, and touched her
shoulder; with a low cry she raised her face, shrinking away from him.
She did not seem surprised either, and I do not think people often are
surprised at the presence, however sudden and unexpected, of their evil
genius. It is good luck which surprises the average human being.

"You give me a cold welcome, my lady," he remarked. "You are so
overjoyed to see me, I suppose. Your carriage is waiting outside. I came
in it, and Arkwright told me I should find you here. Suppose you come
home. We shall be less disturbed there than in these public gardens."

Tone and words all convinced me that he had heard most of what had
passed, and would oppress her with it hereafter.

The late scene had apparently stunned her. After the first recoil she
said, scarcely audibly, "I am ready," and moved. He offered her his arm;
she took it, turning to me and saying, "Come, May!"

"Excuse me," observed Sir Peter, "you are better alone. I am sorry I can
not second your invitation to my charming sister-in-law. I do not think
you fit for any society--even hers."

"I can not leave my sister, Sir Peter; she is not fit to be left," I
found voice to say.

"She is not 'left,' as you say, my dear. She has her husband. She has
me," said he.

Some few further words passed. I do not chronicle them. Sir Peter was as
firm as a rock--that I was helpless before him is a matter of course. I
saw my sister handed into her carriage; I saw Sir Peter follow her--the
carriage drive away. I was left alone, half mad with terror at the idea
of her state, to go home to my lodgings.

Sir Peter had heard the words of von Francius to me; "do not forsake her
now," and had given himself the satisfaction of setting them aside as if
they had been so much waste paper. Von Francius was, as I well knew,
trying to derive comfort in this very moment from the fact that I at
least was with her; I who loved them both, and would have laid down my
life for them. Well, let him have the comfort! In the midst of my sorrow
I rejoiced that he did not know the worst, and would not be likely to
imagine for himself a terror grimmer than any feeling I had yet known.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

"Some say, 'A queen discrowned,' and some call it 'Woman's shame.'
Others name it 'A false step,' or 'Social suicide,' just as it happens
to strike their