th rose, and the two so long divided faced each other sorrowfully.

"Dear Evelyn, do not hug despair so stubbornly to your bosom. You
might brighten your solitary existence if you would, and be
comparatively happy in this lovely seaside home."

"You think 'Solitude' a very desirable and beautiful retreat? Do you
remember the gay raiment and glittering jewels that covered the
radiant bride of Giacopone di Todi? One day an accident at a public
festival mangled her mortally, and when her gorgeous garments were
torn off, lo!

'A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.'"

A sudden pallor crept over the delicate face of the governess, and,
folding her hands, she exclaimed with passionate vehemence,--

"I cannot, I must not shrink from the chief object of my visit here. I
came not only to exonerate myself, but to plead for poor Maurice."

Mrs. Gerome started back, and the pitiless gleam came instantly into
her softened eyes.

"Do not mention his name again. I thought you had neither seen nor
heard from him."

"I must plead his wretched cause, since he is denied the privilege
of appealing to your mercy. Evelyn, my friends write me that he is
almost in a state of destitution. Only last night I received this
letter, which I leave for your perusal, and which assures me he is in
want, and, moreover, is dangerously ill. Who has the right, the
privilege,--whose is the duty, imperative and stern, to hasten to his
bedside, to alleviate his suffering, to provide for his needs?
Yours, Evelyn Carlyle, and yours alone. Where are the marriage-vows
that you snatched from my lips eight years ago, and eagerly took
upon your own? Did you not solemnly swear in the presence of heaven
and earth to serve him and keep him in sickness, and, forsaking all
others, to hold him from that day forward, for better, for worse,
until death did part ye? Oh, Evelyn! do not scowl, and turn away.
However unworthy, he is your husband in the sight of God and man,
and your wedding oath calls you to him in this hour of his terrible
need. Can you sleep peacefully, knowing that he is tossing with
paroxysms of pain, and perhaps hungering and thirsting for that which
you could readily supply? If it were right,--if I dared, I would
hasten to him; but my conscience inexorably forbids the thought,
and consigns my heart to torture, for which there is no name. You
will tell me that you provided once, twice, for all reasonable
wants,--that he has recklessly