er."

"I will never give up Jacqueline!"

"I do not ask it. But you'll go no more to that house, speak no more to
the man she most unhappily wedded. That is my right--if you wait for
me."

She turned and threw herself into his arms. "Oh, Fair, if it is only he
himself--if it is only that dark and wicked man--if you do not ask me to
stop loving her, or writing to her, or seeing her when I can--"

"That is all--only to speak no more to that dark and wicked man."

"Then I'll wait--I'll wait till doomsday! Oh, the world! Oh, the thing
called love! Don't--don't speak to me until I cry it out."

She wept for a while, then dried her eyes and tried to smile. "That's
over. Let us go now and--and read the Arabian Nights. Oh me, oh me, if
we are not merry here, what must Christmas be at Roselands!"

CHAPTER XXXV

THE IMAGE

The murderer of Ludwell Cary unlocked the green door of the office in
Charlottesville, entered, and opened the shutters of the small, square
windows. Outside was a tangle of rose-stems, but no leaf or bloom. The
January sunshine streamed palely in, whitening the deal floor and
striking against a great land map on the wall. Upon the hearth had been
thrown an armful of hickory and pine. Rand, kneeling, laid a fire,
struck a spark into the tinder, and had speedily a leap and colour of
pointed flames. He rose, opened his desk, drew papers out of
pigeon-holes and laid them in order upon the wood, then pushed before it
his accustomed chair. He did not take the latter; instead, after
standing a moment with an indescribable air of weary uncertainty, he
turned, went back to the firelit hearth, sat down, and, bending forward,
hid his face in his hands.

A cricket began to chirp upon the hearth, then the branch of a sycamore,
moved by the wind, struck violently against the low eaves of the house.
Rand arose, put his hands to his temples, and moved away.

There were law-books on the shelves, and he took down one and fell to
studying statutes that bore upon a case he had in court. He read for a
time with a frown of attention, but by degrees all interest flagged. He
turned a page, looked at it with vagueness, and turned no more. His chin
fell upon his hand, and he sat staring at the patch of sunshine on the
floor. It was like light on water--light on Indian Run.

Five minutes more and Mocket came in, soft and quick upon his feet,
sandy-haired and freckle-faced, with his quaint, twisted smile, and
water