nne, had taken them as great, and serious, and sincere;
and she, Anne, had been a fool. Her life had been built upon this idea.
It was a foundation of sand.

She walked on, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Where were now the
resignation and self-sacrifice, the crowned patience and noble
fortitude? Ah, yes, but resignation and fortitude were one thing when
she had thought that he required them also, another when they were
replaced in his life by happiness and content. It is easy to be
self-sacrificing when the one we love suffers in companionship with us,
and there is no rival. But when there is a rival, self-sacrifice goes to
the winds. "He never loved me," was the burning cry of her heart. "I
have been a fool--a poor self-absorbed, blinded fool. If he thinks of me
at all, it is with a smile over my simple credulity."

Through miles of streets she wandered, and at last found herself again
in the quarter where the church stood. A sudden desire seized her to
look at him, at them, again. If the service had been long, she would be
in time to see their carriage pass. She turned, and hastened toward the
church, as anxious now to reach it as she had been before to leave it
far behind. Now she could see the corner and the porch. No, service was
not ended; carriages were waiting without. She was in time. But as she
drew near, figures began to appear, coming from the porch, and she took
refuge under the steps of a house opposite, her figure hidden in the
shadow.

[Illustration: "ANNE, STILL AS A STATUE."]

The congregation slowly made its dignified way into the street. St.
Lucien's had seldom held so large a throng of worshippers. The little
sexton hardly knew, in his excitement, where he was, or what his duty,
on such a momentous occasion. At length they appeared, the last of
all; only one carriage was left, and that was their own. Slowly, leaning
on her husband's arm, the slender fair-haired woman came forth; and
Anne, still as a statue, watched with fixed, burning eyes while he threw
the velvet cloak round her as they reached the open air, and fastened
the clasp. Chance favored the gazer. Helen had left her prayer-book
behind in the pew, and while the sexton went back to look for it,
husband and wife stood waiting on the steps in the sunshine. Yes,
Heathcote had regained all his old vigor, but his expression was
changed. He was graver; in repose his face was stern.

It seemed as if Helen felt the fixed although unseen gaz