ught you did?"

"I was engaged before I came here."

"And the engagement is broken?"

"We quarrelled."

Mary French breathed deeply.

"You will forget it here. He can draw the very soul out of your body."

"He cannot!" flashed Emeline.

"Some one will kill him yet. He is not understood at his best, and he
cannot endure defeat of any kind. When you come into the family you must
guard him from his enemies as I have constantly guarded him. If you ever
let a hair of his head be harmed--then I shall hate you!"

"Mrs. Strang, do you come here to push me too! My uncle's family,
everything, all are closing around me! Why don't you help me? I
loathe--I loathe; your husband!"

Mary French rose, her smile changing only to express deep tenderness.

"You are a good girl dear. I can myself feel your charm. I was not so
self-denying. In my fierce young girlhood I would have removed a rival.
But since you ask me, I will do all I can for you in the way you desire.
My errand is done. Good-by."

"Good-by," said Emeline, restraining herself.

She sat watching the elastic shape under the parasol move with its
shadow across the field. She had not a doubt until Mary French was gone;
then the deep skill of the Prophet's wife with rivals sprung out like a
distortion of nature.

Emeline had nearly three weeks in which to intrench herself with doubts
and defences. She felt at first surprised and relieved. When her second
absence from the Tabernacle was passed over in silence she found in
her nature an unaccountable pique, which steadily grew to unrest. She
ventured and turned back on the woods path leading to St. James many
times, each time daring farther. The impulse to go to St. James came on
her at waking, and she resisted through busy hours of the day. But the
family often had tasks from which Emeline was free, and when the desire
grew unendurable she knelt at her secluded bedside in the loft, trying
to bring order out of her confused thoughts. She reviewed her quarrel
with her lover, and took blame for his desertion. The grievance which
had seemed so great to her before she came to Beaver Island dwindled,
and his personality with it. In self-defence she coaxed her fancy,
pretending that James Arnold was too good for her. It was well he had
found it out. But because he was too good for her she ought to go on
being fond of him at a safe distance, undetected by him, and discreetly
cherishing his large blond image as her ideal of