eption which allowed her to detect in the child's face a
distinct resemblance to Harvey. Of course, there was nothing of the
kind. She had been the victim of a morbid jealousy--a symptom, no
doubt, of the disorder of the nerves which was growing upon her. Yet
she could not overcome her antipathy to Mary Abbott. Harvey, she felt
sure, would never have made himself responsible for those children, but
that in doing so he benefited their teacher; and it was not without
motive of conscience that he kept the matter secret. By no effort could
Alma banish this suspicion. She resolved that it should never appear;
she commanded her face and her utterance; but it was impossible for her
ever to regard Mrs. Abbott with liking, or even with respect.

In a darker corner of her mind lay hidden another shape of
jealousy--jealousy unavowed, often disguised as fear, but for the most
part betraying itself through the mask of hatred.

Times innumerable, in nights that brought no rest, and through long
hours of weary day, Alma had put her heart to the proof, and acquitted
it of any feeling save a natural compassion for the man Hugh Carnaby
had killed. She had never loved Redgrave, had never even thought of him
with that curiosity which piques the flesh; yet so inseparably was he
associated with her life at its points of utmost tension and ardour,
that she could not bear to yield to any other woman a closer intimacy,
a prior claim. At her peril she had tempted him, and up to the fatal
moment she was still holding her own in the game which had become to
her a passion. It ended--because a rival came between. Of Sibyl's guilt
she never admitted a doubt; it was manifest in the story made public by
Hugh Carnaby, the story which he, great simple fellow, told in all good
faith, relying absolutely on his wife's assertion of innocence. Saving
her husband, who believed Sibyl innocent?

She flattered herself with the persuasion that it was right to hate
Sibyl--a woman who had sold herself for money, whose dishonour differed
in no respect from that of the woman of the pavement. And all the more
she hated her because she feared her. What security could there be that
Redgrave's murderer (thus she thought of him) had kept the secret which
he promised to keep? That he allowed no hint of it to escape him in
public did not prove that he had been equally scrupulous with Sibyl;
for Hugh was a mere plaything in the hands of his wife, and it seemed
more than lik