e
hand; it was as cold as death.

"Farewell, my love," he said--"farewell!"

He kissed her face with slow, sweet reverence, as he would have kissed
the face of a dead woman whom he loved; and then he was gone.

Like one in a dream, she heard the wheel of a carriage rolling away. She
stretched out her hands with a faint cry.

"Norman--my husband--my love!" she called; but from the deep silence of
the night there came no response. He was gone.

Madaline passed the night in watching the silent skies. Mrs. Burton,
after providing all that was needful, had retired quickly to rest. She
did not think it "good manners" to intrude upon her ladyship.

All night Madaline watched the stars, and during the course of that
night the best part of her died--youth, love, hope, happiness. Strange
thoughts came to her--thoughts that she could hardly control. Why was
she so cruelly punished? What had she done? She had read of wicked lives
that had met with terrible endings. She had read of sinful men and
wicked women whose crimes, even in this world, had been most bitterly
punished. She had read of curses following sin. But what had she done?
No woman's lot surely had ever been so bitter. She could not understand
it, while the woman who had loved her husband, who had practiced fraud
and deceit, and lied, went unpunished.

Yet her case was hardly that, for Norman did not love her. Daughter of a
felon as she--Madaline--was--poor, lowly, obscure--he had given her his
heart, although he could never make her the mistress of his home. There
was some compensation for human suffering, some equality in the human
lot, after all. She would be resigned. There were lots in life far worse
than hers. What if she had learned to love Norman, and he had never
cared for her? What if she had learned to love him, and had found him
less noble than he was? What if, in the bitterness of his disappointment
and passion, he had vented his anger upon her? After all, she could not
but admire his sense of honor, his respect for his name, his devotion to
his race; she could not find fault with his conduct, although it had
cost her so dear.

"I think," she admitted to herself, "that in his place I should have
done the same thing. If my parent's crime has brought sorrow and
disgrace to me, who have no name, no fame, no glory of race to keep up,
what must it have brought to him? In his place I should have done as he
has done."

Then, after a time, she clasped her