t drew you with irresistible strength, and knitted you to the
soul, and the heart, and the flesh of another, until his breath became
your breath, and his life your life. It called you with a voice that
plucked at the secret chords of your being, and was stern and compelling
rather than sweet to implore. It drew you to the beloved, not with ribbons
of silk, but with ropes of tempered steel. It was potent and resistless
as death, and infinitely deeper than the grave. It reached out aspiring
hands beyond the grave, into Eternity. And, newly born as it rose in the
heart of this woman, it was yet as old as Eden, where Heavenly Love
created the earthly love, that is more than half-divine.

Why, why had he sent her away, bidding her be happy and forget him?... The
memory of his hollow eyes and haggard face pierced her to the quick. He
was ill--he was in trouble; he had sent her away that he might bear the
burden solely.... Or ... an iron hand closed upon her heart, and wrung it
until points of moisture started upon her fair temples under the fine
tendrils of her hair ... could the reason be--another woman?

Another woman?... She set her little teeth and drove the unworthy thought
away. But it came again and again--a persistent mental gadfly. Was Owen
not worthy of love? Suppose another sweeter, gentler creature had found a
throne in the heart that his wife had prized so lightly, would it be so
very strange, after all? Perhaps that was why he had asked her to forgive
him for having married her a little while ago!

She dropped her head upon her folded arms, and sobbed at the thought. Then
she dried her tears and rang for her maid, and presently came down to
breakfast with Lady Hannah, smiling and composed, cheerful and attentive
as a hostess ought to be. But her reddened eyelids told tales.

"Misses her Doctor, no doubt," thought Lady Hannah, as she commended the
country eggs and butter, and was enthusiastic over the thyme-scented Welsh
mountain-honey, and apologetic over the absence of her Bingo from the
board.

She would carry her nuisance his breakfast with her own hands, she vowed,
as he had left his man behind, on hearing from the Doctor that the house
was a small one.

"But why?" asked Lynette. "There is Marie, my maid, and the red-cheeked
parlourmaid, whose name I don't yet know, and Mrs. Pugh, the housekeeper
..."

"Who was Dr. Saxham's nurse when he was a little boy, and adores him. And
Mrs. Pugh's husband, who i