were going out one by one as she returned up the dark,
deserted street. The moon emerged from the clouds, and filled her room
with a flood of unnatural light just as she entered. She threw herself
upon her pillow, and a cry of pain went up from her wounded heart. She
started the next instant in fear lest some one had heard. But no, there
was no one near here, save that loving One who hears every moan; and
Beth had not learned yet that He can lull every sufferer to rest in His
bosom. The house was perfectly still, and she lay there in the darkness
and silence, no line changing in the rigid marble of her face. She heard
her father's step pass by in the hall; then the old clock struck out the
midnight hour, and still she lay in that stupor with drops of cold
perspiration on her brow.

Suddenly a change came over her. Her cheeks grew paler still, but her
eyes burned. She rose and paced the room, with quick, agitated steps.

"Traitress! Traitress!" she almost hissed through her white lips. "It is
_her_ fault. It is _her_ fault. And I called her _friend_. Friend!
Treachery!"

Then she sank upon her bed, exhausted by the outburst of passion, for it
took but little of this to exhaust Beth. She was not a passionate girl.
Perhaps, never in her life before had she passed through anything like
passion, and she lay there now still and white, her hands folded as in
death.

In the meantime something else had happened at the Mayfair dwelling. She
had not noticed the tall man that passed her as she crossed the lawn in
the darkness, but a moment later a dark figure paused on the terrace in
the same spot where she had stood, and his attention was arrested by the
same scene in the library. He paused but a moment before entering, but
even his firm tread was unheard on the soft carpet, as he strode up the
hall to the half-open curtains of the library. Marie's face was still
drooping, but the next instant the curtains were thrown back violently,
and they both paled at the sight of the stern, dark face in the
door-way.

"Clarence Mayfair!" he cried in a voice of stern indignation. "Clarence
Mayfair, you dare to speak words of love to that woman at your side?
You! Beth Woodburn's promised husband?"

"Arthur Grafton!" exclaimed Clarence, and Marie drew back through the
violet curtains.

A firm hand grasped Clarence by the shoulder, and, white with fear, he
stood trembling before his accuser.

"Wretch! unworthy wretch! And you claim _h