he passed on as though she did not
hear. Once again, before the dance was ended, he ventured to address
her; but she replied with grave dignity, "We must meet as strangers:
henceforth I shall not know you, Dr. Taschereau."

Louis foamed with rage at the cool contempt conveyed in these words.
He ground his teeth, and swore to be revenged. At last the guests all
departed, and Harry too had taken leave (for as this was his last day at
Elm Grove, he was going by the three o'clock train to keep his promise,
for Harry was very strict, and would not have remained another day on
any pretext). Then Isabel had to listen to the praises bestowed on her
by all the Arlington family, who complimented her upon the sensation
she had made, and to force herself to join in an animated conversation
regarding the events of the evening; so that she was truly glad when Mr.
Arlington dismissed the 'conclave,' saying that they could discuss the
party next day.

When Isabel gained her own room, and sat down to think of her trouble,
she began to realize the full extent of her misery. She had scarcely
known 'till now, how much his love had supported her through all her
trials; or how the thought of one day being his, had softened the ills
she had been called upon to endure since her father's death. Now she
must think of him no more--he was hers no longer. But worse than this,
was the pain and grief of knowing that he was unworthy of the love and
admiration that she had bestowed upon him. She knew that he was proud,
passionate and exacting, yet she loved him; for these very
characteristics, mingled as they were with more endearing qualities, had
a peculiar charm for her. How happy she had been to feel that he loved
her; and oh! the pain, the agony, of knowing that he did so no longer.
Why, why had he written that letter? Oh it was cruel, cruel. And then
to think that it had all been planned, premeditated, with the express
design of making her suffer more acutely, was bitter in the extreme. To
lose his love was misery; but to know that he was deceitful, cruel and
revengeful, was agony beyond endurance. She did not weep: her grief was
too stony for tears. "Oh, Louis, Louis," she moaned in her agony, "what
have I done, to deserve such cruel treatment?" She leaned her head upon
her arm, and pressed her hand upon her throbbing temples, for the tumult
of her thoughts became intolerable. She pictured to herself Louis, as
she loved to see him; old scenes r