as growing bitter. "I repeat--can you imagine any
other reason?" he said. Still she did not answer.

"Why do you not answer? I shall begin to suspect that you do."

At this she stirred a little, and he was satisfied. He had moved her
from her rigidity. Not wishing to alarm her, he went on, tentatively:
"My theory of the motive you are not willing to allow; still, I consider
it a possible and even probable one. For they were not happy: _he_ was
not happy. Beautiful as she was, rich as she was, I was told, when I
first came eastward in the spring, soon after their marriage, that had
it not been for that accident and the dangerous illness that followed,
Helen Lorrington would never have been Ward Heathcote's wife."

"Who told you this?" said Anne, turning toward him.

"I did not hear it from her, but it came from her--Rachel Bannert."

"She is a traitorous woman."

"Yes; but traitors betray--the truth."

He was watching her closely; she felt it, and turned toward the window
again, so that he should not see her eyes.

"Suppose that he did not love her, but had married her under the
influence of pity, when her life hung by a thread; suppose that she
loved him--you say she did. Can you not imagine that there might have
been moments when she tormented him beyond endurance concerning his past
life--who knows but his present also? She was jealous; and she had
wonderful ingenuity. But I doubt if you comprehend what I mean: a woman
never knows a woman as a man knows her. And Heathcote was not patient.
He is a self-indulgent man--a man who has been completely spoiled."

Again he paused. Then he could not resist bringing forward something
else, under any circumstances, to show her that she was of no
consequence in the case compared with another person. "It is whispered,
I hear, that the maid will testify that there was a motive, and a strong
one, namely, a rival; that there was another woman whom Heathcote really
loved, and that Helen knew this, and used the knowledge."

[Illustration: "HE ROSE, AND TOOK HER COLD HANDS IN HIS."]

The formless dread which accompanied Anne began now to assume
definite outline and draw nearer. She gazed at her inquisitor with eyes
full of dumb distress.

He rose, and took her cold hands in his. "Child," he said, earnestly, "I
beseech you tell me all. It will be so much better for you, so much
safer. You are suffering intensely. I have seen it all the evening. Can
you not trust me?"

She