y for you,
Mrs. Fletcher--sorry that your sacrifice of youth and loveliness, on the
altar of Mammon, has been in vain. I had hoped, when I married you, of
winning some return for the limitless love I gave you. I know to-night
how futile that hope has been. Once again, for your sake, I am sorry;
for myself I do not care. The world is a wide place, and I can win my
way. I give you your freedom, the only reparation for marrying you in my
power to make. I leave here to-night, New York to-morrow; and
so--farewell!"

She stood like a stone; he turned and left her. Once she had made a
movement, seeing the white anguish of his face, as though to go to
him--but she did not. He was gone, and she dropped down in the
rose-and-silver glitter of her fairy-room, as miserable a woman as day
ever dawned on.

A month later, and she was far away, buried alive in the Dover Cottage.
All had gone; the nine days wonder was at an end; the "rich Fletcher"
and his handsome wife had disappeared out of the magic whirl of society;
and society got on very well without them. They had been, and they were
not--and the story was told. Of all who had broken bread with the ruined
man, there were not two who cared a fillip whether he were living or
dead.

The December wind wailed over the stormy sea, and the wintry rain lashed
the windows of the Dover Cottage. Marian Fletcher sat before the blazing
fire in a long, low, gloomy parlor, and Capt. Craymore stood before her.
He had but just found her out, and he had run down to see how she bore
her altered fortunes. She bore them as an uncrowned queen might, with
regal pride and cold endurance. The exquisite face had lost its
rose-leaf bloom; the deep, still eyes looked larger and more fathomless;
the mouth was set in patient pain--that was all. The man felt his heart
burn as he looked at her, she was so lovely, _so_ lovely. He leaned
over, and the passionate words came that he could not check. He loved
her. She loved him; she was forsaken and alone--why need they part?

She listened, growing whiter than a dead woman. Then she came and faced
him, until the cowered soul within him shrank and quailed.

"I have fallen very low," she said. "I am poor, and alone, and a
deserted wife. But Capt. Craymore, I have not fallen low enough to be
your mistress. Go!"

Her unflickering finger pointed to the door. There was that in her face
no man dare disobey, and he slunk forth like a whipped hound. Then as on
that ni