was to be buried in oblivion. He
even wondered a little at Nan's _savoir-faire_, and felt a vague sense
of disappointment mingling with his relief. Was he to hear no more about
it, although she had been struck down and brought almost to death's door
by the discovery of his wretched story?

It seemed to be so, indeed. For some time he was kept in continual
suspense, expecting her to speak to him on the subject; but he waited in
vain. Then, with great reluctance, he himself made some slight approach,
some slight reference to it; a reference so slight that if, as he
sometimes fancied, her illness _had_ destroyed her memory of the
conversation which she had overheard in the study, he need not betray
himself. But there was no trace of lack of memory in Nan's face, when he
brought out the words which he hoped would lead to some fuller
understanding between them. She turned scarlet and then white as snow.
Turning her face aside, she said, in a low but very distinct voice,

"I want to hear no more about it, Sydney."

"But, Nan----"

"_Please_ say no more," she interrupted. And something in her tone made
him keep silence. He looked at her for a minute or two, but she would
not look at him and so he got up and left her, with a sense of mingled
injury and defeat.

No, she had not forgotten: she was not oblivious; and he doubted whether
she had forgiven him as he thought. The prohibition to speak on the
subject chafed him, although he had previously said to himself that it
was next to impossible for him to mention it to her. And he was puzzled,
for he had not followed the workings of Nan's mind in the least, and the
words, concerning his marriage with her and his reasons for it had
slipped past him unheeded, while his thoughts were fixed upon other
things.

CHAPTER XL.

"WHO WITH REPENTANCE IS NOT SATISFIED--."

Before the summer came, Mrs. Sydney Campion was well enough to drive out
in an open carriage, and entertain visitors; but it was painfully
apparent to her friends that her health had received a shock from which
it had not by any means recovered. She grew better up to a certain
point, and there she seemed to stay. She had lost all interest in life.
Day after day, when Sydney came home, he would find her sitting or lying
on a sofa, white and still, with book or work dropped idly in her lap,
her dark eyes full of an unspoken sorrow, her mouth drooping in mournful
curves, her thin cheek laid against a slender