Oakhurst would have looked upon it as an
evidence of guilt. But there is no quality that courage recognizes so
quickly as courage. There is no condition that desperation bows before
but desperation. And Mr. Oakhurst's power of analysis was not so keen as
to prevent him from confounding her courage with a moral quality. Even
in his fury, he could not help admiring this dauntless invalid.

"Why should you not?" she repeated with a smile. "You gave me life,
health, and happiness, Jack. You gave me your love. Why should you not
take what you have given? Go on. I am ready."

She held out her hands with that same infinite grace of yielding with
which she had taken his own on the first day of their meeting at the
hotel. Jack raised his head, looked at her for one wild moment, dropped
upon his knees beside her, and raised the folds of her dress to his
feverish lips. But she was too clever not to instantly see her victory:
she was too much of a woman, with all her cleverness, to refrain from
pressing that victory home. At the same moment, as with the impulse of
an outraged and wounded woman, she rose, and, with an imperious gesture,
pointed to the window. Mr. Oakhurst rose in his turn, cast one glance
upon her, and without another word passed out of her presence forever.

When he had gone, she closed the window and bolted it, and, going to
the chimney-piece, placed the letters, one by one, in the flame of the
candle until they were consumed. I would not have the reader think,
that, during this painful operation, she was unmoved. Her hand trembled,
and--not being a brute--for some minutes (perhaps longer) she felt very
badly, and the corners of her sensitive mouth were depressed. When her
husband arrived, it was with a genuine joy that she ran to him, and
nestled against his broad breast with a feeling of security that
thrilled the honest fellow to the core.

"But I've heard dreadful news to-night, Elsie," said Mr. Decker, after a
few endearments were exchanged.

"Don't tell me any thing dreadful, dear: I'm not well to-night," she
pleaded sweetly.

"But it's about Mr. Oakhurst and Hamilton."

"Please!" Mr. Decker could not resist the petitionary grace of those
white hands and that sensitive mouth, and took her to his arms. Suddenly
he said, "What's that?"

He was pointing to the bosom of her white dress. Where Mr. Oakhurst had
touched her, there was a spot of blood.

It was nothing: she had slightly cut her hand in clo