r and inexplicable.

--Unless--it seemed like a mad cry raised by one of the blind men in the
dark,--unless she told him all, confessed all; her guilt, her shame, the
truths of her blighted life. She shuddered; she cowered as the cry came
to her, covering her ears and shutting it out. It was mad, mad. She had
not strength for such a task, and if that were weakness--oh, with a long
breath she drew in the mitigation--if it were weakness, would it not be
a cruel, a heartless strength that could blight her child's life too, in
the name of truth. She must not listen to the cry. Yet strangely it had
echoed in her, almost as if from within, not from without, the dark,
deserted church; almost as if her soul, shut in there in the darkness,
were crying out to her. She turned her mind from the sick fancy.

Augustine met her at dinner. He was pale but he seemed composed. They
spoke little. He said, in answer to her questioning, that he had quite
liked Lady Elliston; yes, they had had a nice talk; she seemed very
friendly; he should go and see her when he next went up to London.

Amabel felt the crispness in his voice but, centered as she was in her
own self-mastery, she could not guess at the degree of his.

After dinner they went into the drawing-room, where the old, ugly lamp
added its light to the candles on the mantel-piece.

Augustine took his book and sat down at one side of the table. Amabel
sat at the other. She, too, took a book and tried to read; a little time
passed and then she found that her hands were trembling so much that she
could not. She slid the book softly back upon the table, reaching out
for her work-bag. She hoped Augustine had not seen, but, glancing up at
him, she saw his eyes upon her.

Augustine's eyes looked strange tonight. The dark rims around the iris
seemed to have expanded. Suddenly she felt horribly afraid of him.

They gazed at each other, and she forced herself to a trembling,
meaningless smile. And when she smiled at him he sprang up and came to
her. He leaned over her, and she shrank back into her chair, shutting
her eyes.

"You must tell me the truth," said Augustine. "I can't bear this. _He_
has made you unhappy.--_He_ comes between us."

She lay back in the darkness, hearing the incredible words.

"He?--What do you mean?"

"He is a bad man. And he makes you miserable. And you love him."

She heard the nightmare: she could not look at it.

"My husband bad? He is good, more good