been a happy woman; I have always wanted love, and it has not
come to me. Perhaps I should be, but I am not--a high ideal being. I
am as Nature made me, Arthur, a poor creature, unable to stand alone
against such a current as has lately swept me with it. But you are
quite right, you must leave me, we _must_ separate, you _must_ go; but
oh God! when I think of the future, the hard, loveless future----"

She paused awhile, and then went on--

"I did not think to harm you or involve you in trouble, though I hoped
to win some small portion of your love, and I had something to give
you in exchange, if beauty and great wealth are really worth anything.
But you must go, dear, now, whilst I am brave. I hope that you will be
happy with your Angela. When I see your marriage in the paper, I shall
send her this tiara as a wedding present. I shall never wear it again.
Go, dear; go quick."

He turned to leave, not trusting himself to speak, for the big tears
stood in his eyes, and his throat was choked. When he had reached the
steps, she called him back.

"Kiss me once before you go, and I see your dear face no more. I used
to be a proud woman, and to think that I can stoop to rob a kiss from
Angela. Thank you; you are very kind. And now one word; you know a
woman always loves a last word. Sometimes it happens that we put up
idols, and a stronger hand than ours shatters them to dust before our
eyes. I trust this may not be your lot. I love you so well that I can
say that honestly; but, Arthur, if it should be, remember that in all
the changes of this cold world there is one heart which will never
forget you, and never set up a rival to your memory, one place where
you will always find a home. If anything should ever happen to break
your life, come back to me for comfort, Arthur. I can talk no more; I
have played for high stakes--and lost. Good-bye."

He went without a word.

CHAPTER XLVIII

Reader, have you ever, in the winter or early spring, come from a hot-
house where you have admired some rich tropical bloom, and then, in
walking by the hedgerows, suddenly seen a pure primrose opening its
sweet eye, and looking bravely into bitter weather's face? If so, you
will, if it is your habit to notice flowers, have experienced some
such sensation as takes possession of my mind when I pass from the
story of Mildred as she was then, storm-tossed and loving, to Angela,
as loving indeed, and yet more