. Carol
Quinton shall never enter her doors again after this call, never see
her, hear from her, speak to her. She will fade from his life, as a
shadow, a phantom! The sting of sorrow, the bitterness of thus casting
a love she treasured to the wind, is subdued in a measure by a sense of
exhilaration, at the thought of her good resolve.

Already "virtue's own reward" seems in her grasp, her heart is lighter,
her spirit does not quail. She is tasting perhaps a shred of the
martyrs' joy, when they suffered in the cause of right, she is battling
down that weaker nature and gaining a victory in advance.

She is impatient for the moment to arrive when Carol shall stand before
her to learn his fate, his isolation, from her lips. No pity, no
glimpse of feeling, no suspicion of sentiment is to creep into this
day's farewell. He will leave her for ever with the ordinary
hand-shake of a casual acquaintance. Yes, she is nerved, strong, sure!

It has taken Eleanor three nights of sleepless vigil to overcome her
love and stamp it out. She has not reached this point without a
struggle.

She listens eagerly for him to come, longing for the interview to
commence and end, while a spirit of heroism is upon her, laying her
lower nature in the dust.

"Down! you shall never rise again," she cries. "Oh! why is he so long?
I want him _now_. I could do it _now_. After to-day I shall have
swept the temptation from my path, and made it impossible for Carol
Quinton to be my friend."

The bell rings--the outer bell. She staggers to her feet.

The brown chrysanthemum in her belt falls to the ground and lies
unheeded.

How she trembles! Her face, too, is deadly pale, revealed in the
mirror opposite. She sways like a flower blown in a gale. There is a
prayer on her lips, an angel knocking at her heart.

The door opens, and Sarah enters with the tea-tray.

Eleanor sinks on the sofa, the reaction leaving her faint and powerless
to speak.

She watches the tea-table brought forward, the hot scones placed by the
fire.

At last she regains her composure.

"Who was that at the front door, Sarah?"

"Mr. Quinton, ma'am."

"Mr. Quinton! Why did you not show him in?"

Eleanor leans forward breathlessly, looking Sarah up and down.

The maid crimsons, and replies:

"If you please, it was master's orders. He told me to say 'not at
home' when Mr. Quinton called."

A moment's pause, during which Mrs. Roche struggles with her