ginning of her trial, and her whole soul
shrank from the contemplation of what lay before her. The dear dreams of
her childhood had flickered out like pictures on a screen. And she had
awakened to find herself in a prison-house from which all her life long
she could never hope to escape. Did some memory of the arms that had
enfolded her so often and so tenderly come to her as she realized it? If
so, it was only to stab her afresh with the bitter irony of Fate that had
lavished upon her the love of a man who had filled her life with all that
woman's heart could desire, and yet had failed to give her happiness.

And so, when Bertrand spoke of going, the newly awakened heart of her
rose up in sudden, hot revolt. His departure was inevitable, and she knew
it, but her endurance was not equal to the strain. She had deemed herself
stronger than she was.

She threw out her hands with a passionate gesture. "Bertie! What shall I
do without you? I can't go on by myself. I can't--I can't!"

It was like the cry of a child, but in it there throbbed all the deep
longing of her womanhood. Ah! why had her eyes been opened? Surely she
had been happier blind!

He took the outflung hands and held them. He looked into her eyes. "But,
_cherie_," he said, "you have your husband."

"I know--I know!" Piteously the words came from her. "He is very good to
me. But, Bertie, he--has never been--first. I know it now. I didn't know
before, or I wouldn't have married him. I swear I would never have
married him--if I had known!"

"_Cherie_, hush!" Almost sternly he checked her, though his eyes
were unfailingly kind. "You must not say it, Christine. Words always
make a bad thing worse. Think instead how great is his love for you.
Remember--oh, remember that you are his wife! The sin was mine that you
could ever forget it. But you have not forgotten it, _mignonne!_ Tell me
that you have not! Tell me that when you think of me it will be as a
friend who gives you no regrets, the friend of your childhood, little
Christine--the comrade with whom you played in the sunshine; no more
than that--no more than that!"

Very earnestly he besought her, holding her hands lightly clasped between
his own, ready at her slightest movement to let them go. But she made no
effort to withdraw them. She only bent her head and wept as though her
heart were breaking.

"_Cherie, cherie_!" he said, and that was all; for he had no words
wherewith to comfort her. He had wro