fallen upon her? It is a
hateful thought. And to bring her here. Where he was. What power has he
over her? Oh! the sense of relief in thinking that she will be at home
to-morrow--safe with Barbara.

Her hand is on the door. She is going.

"Joyce," says Dysart suddenly, sharply. All his soul is in his voice. So
keenly it rings, that involuntarily she turns to him. Great agony must
make itself felt, and to Dysart, seeing her on the point of leaving him
forever, it seems as though his life is being torn from him. In truth
she is his life, the entire happiness of it--if she goes through that
door unforgiving, she will carry with her all that makes it bearable.

She is looking at him. Her eyes are brilliant with nervous excitement;
her face pale. Her very lips have lost their color.

"Yes?" says she interrogatively, impatiently.

"I am going away to-morrow--I shall not----"

"Yes, yes--I know. I am going, too."

"I shall not see you again?"

"I hope not--I think not."

She makes another step forward. Opening the door with a little light
touch, she places one hand before the candle and peers timidly into the
dark hall outside.

"Don't let that be your last word to me," says the young man,
passionately. "Joyce, hear me! There must be some excuse for me."

"Excuse?" says she, looking back at him over her shoulder, her lovely
face full of curious wonder.

"Yes--yes! I was mad! I didn't mean a word I said--I swear it!
I----Joyce, forgive me!"

The words, though whispered, burst from him with a despairing vehemence.
He would have caught her hand but that she lifts her eyes to his--such
eyes!

There is a little pause, and then:

"Oh, no! Never--never!" says she.

Her tone is very low and clear--not angry, not even hasty or
reproachful. Only very sad and certain. It kills all hope.

She goes quickly through the open doorway, closing it behind her. The
faint, ghostly sound of her footfalls can be heard as she crosses the
hall. After a moment even this light sound ceases. She is indeed gone!
It is all over!

* * * * *

With a kind of desire to hide herself, Joyce has crept into her bed,
sore at heart, angry, miserable. No hope that sleep will again visit her
has led her to this step, and, indeed, would sleep be desirable? What a
treacherous part it had played when last it fell on her!

How grieved he looked--how white! He was evidently most honestly sorry
for all the unkind th