tonishment which might restore him to his better self.

Drawing up a chair, he sat down; then started upright again with dilating
eyes and a strange shadow on his brow. One of her arms lay uppermost
and on the hand--almost as fine as Lucie's, but not quite,--he saw the
ring--his ring, and it hung loosely. The poor child was growing thin,
very thin. "If she were to hold her hand downward," he muttered to
himself, "I believe that ring would fall off." Did some stray glimpse of
his own features, wearing a look never seen on them before, confront him
from some near-by mirror that he started so guiltily as this heart murmur
rose to his lips? Or was it at a thought, hideous but tempting, which
held him, gained upon him and soon absolutely possessed him, till his own
hand went out stealthily and with hesitations toward those helpless
fingers of hers, now approaching, now withdrawing, and now approaching
them again but not touching them, great as his impulse was to do so,
for fear she should wake, while yet the devil gripped his arm and lit up
baleful fires in his eyes.

He had remembered those words of hers: "Have you ever thought that with
the exception of this ring no proof exists in all the world of our ever
having been married?" Remember them? He had not remembered them; he had
heard them, sounding and resounding in his ears till the whole room
seemed to palpitate with them. Then the devil made his final move.
Ermentrude shuddered, and her position changing, the hand which had
been uppermost fell down at her side and the ring slipped--left her
finger--paused on the edge of the couch--then came to rest in his palm
held out to receive it.

He had not drawn it from her hand. Fate had restored it. As he forced
himself to look at it lying in his grasp, a faintness as of death seized
and held him for a moment; then this passed and he slowly rose and step
by step with sidelong looks and hair starting upright on his forehead,
like one who has walked in blood and sees the trail of guilt following
him along the floor, he left her side--he left the room--he left the
house--and the rose-leaves fell about him once more, maddening him with
their color, maddening him with the memories inseparable from their
sweetness--a sweetness which spoke of her, of love, and the attachment
of a true heart destined to grieve for a little while at least, for he
was never going back, never, never.

There was no eye to see, and no tongue to tell him t