pray pardon me; it is high time
that this should end."

"It shall end at once," she replied. "It is to be war between us, Sir
Edgar--war to the knife!"

"There is no need for war," I said, wearily. "Let us forget all about
it. There will be no need for you to do anything romantic, Coralie.
Stay on at Crown Anstey, and make yourself happy with Clare."

"Yes," she replied, with that strange smile, "I shall remain at Crown
Anstey--I have no thought of going away."

She turned as though she would quit the room. I went up to her.

"Good night, Coralie. Shake hands, and let us part friends."

"When I touch your hand again, Sir Edgar, it will be under very
different circumstances. Good night."

She swept from the room with the dignity of an outraged queen, leaving
me unhappy, bewildered and anxious.

I had the most chivalrous love and devotion for all womankind, and I
must confess to feeling most dreadfully shocked. It seemed almost
unheard of.

Then I tried to forget it--the passionate words, the pale, tearful
beauty of that wonderful face. Strange that Clare's conviction should so
soon be realized. What of that nervous conviction she had that evil
would come of this fair woman's love? What if that were realized, too?

I sat late that night, dreaming not only of the pure, sweet girl I had
won, but of the woman whose burning tears had fallen on my hands. What
harm could she do if she tried? What did she mean by being richly
dowered? Had she any fortune that I did not know of? Her words were
mysterious. Strange to say, the same nervous forebodings that had seized
Clare seized me.

Evil would come of it; how or why I could not imagine, but it would
come. I felt it gathering round me; then I laughed at myself, at my own
foolish fancy.

Yet the same fancy had shaken me so that when I went into Clare's room
to say "Good night," she asked me if I were ill, and would not be
satisfied until I laughingly told her my happiness had been too much for
me.

I felt shy as a girl the next morning at the thought of coming
downstairs to meet mademoiselle. Nor was I quite devoid of some little
fear. Would she be sorrowful, resigned, pathetic, angry, or what? It was
impossible to tell.

Imagine my surprise on opening the breakfast-room door to find her
already at the table, looking blooming and beautiful as a June rose. She
greeted me gayly, with bright smiles and bright words. I might have
thought all the passion, the sorrow a