this mean? Did this not
coincide with what she knew of Guy Molyneux? And what was to be the
end of all this? Her brain reeled at the thoughts that came to her as
she asked herself this question.

For this Windham was _hers_. Windham, with his devotion, his fervid
passion, his burning words, his despairing love, his incessant
self-watchfulness and strong self-control. Windham, who had snatched
her from a dreadful death, and given glory and bliss to that heaven
in life which she had known in Marseilles and in Florence; Windham,
who had found in her society his highest happiness, and had spoken to
her words of frenzied adoration; Windham, who had been the partner of
so many stolen interviews; Windham, who once had flung aside even his
honor and duty in his mad love, and urged her to fly with him to
India! And could this man be Guy Molyneux? There were amazing
coincidences which she could now recall. He had come home in mourning
from India. He had told her of those very scenes in India of which
she had read in Guy's letters. He had said that he was bound to a
fate which he abhorred, and she recalled what had been her own
conjectures as to what that fate might be.

At such thoughts as these she was filled with a mixture of deep joy
and deadly fear. What might the end be? what could the end be?--this
was the question now. Windham loved; Guy hated. Could these two men
be indeed one? If they were, then how could this love and hate be
reconciled? Would Windham cease to love, or Guy give up his hate? To
her, also, there was still terror in the thought of Guy; and for
Windham to be resolved into that man, from whom she had fled, seemed
to her as though he were about to become her enemy. Yet this did not
seem possible. Such confidence had she in Windham's love that the
thought of his losing it, or changing, appeared the wildest
improbability. No; that, at least, could not be. Still he was her
own. Not yet could she blend his image with that of Guy. In her
bewilderment she clung to this as her only comfort, and hoped that,
in some way, all this would be explained.

Meanwhile Obed had been sitting in a bewilderment equal to hers, and
keeping a silence that was hard to maintain. At length he could
restrain his feelings no longer.

"Can you tell," he asked at length--"can you imagine, Miss
Lorton--have you the remotest idea of what in thunder is the meaning
of all this?"

"I don't know," said Zillah; "I don't understand; I can't