te a natural idea," says she, immovably.

"However," says he, steadily, "you need not be afraid that, even if we
do meet, I shall ever annoy you in this way again----"

"Oh, I am never afraid," says she, with that terrible smile that seems
to freeze him.

"Well, good-bye," holding out his hand. He is quite as composed as she
is now, and is even able to return her smile in kind.

"So soon? But Barbara will be down to tea in a few minutes. You will
surely wait for her?"

"I think not."

"But really do! I am going to see after the children, and give them some
chocolate I bought for them."

"It will probably make them ill," says he, smiling still. "No, thank
you. I must go now, indeed. You will make my excuses to Mrs. Monkton,
please. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," says she, laying her hand in his for a second. She has grown
suddenly very cold, shivering: it seems almost as if an icy blast from
some open portal has been blown in upon her. He is still looking at her.
There is something wild--strange--in his expression.

"You cannot realize it, but I can," says he, unsteadily. "It is good-bye
forever, so far as life for me is concerned."

He has turned away from her. He is gone. The sharp closing of the door
wakens her to the fact that she is alone. Mechanically, quite calmly,
she looks around the empty room. There is a little Persian chair cover
over there all awry. She rearranges it with a critical eye to its proper
appearance, and afterward pushes a small chair into its place. She pats
a cushion or two, and, finally taking up her bonnet and the pins she had
laid upon the chimney-piece, goes up to her own room.

Once there----

With a rush the whole thing comes back to her. The entire meaning of
it--what she has done. That word--forever. The bonnet has fallen from
her fingers. Sinking upon her knees beside the bed, she buries her face
out of sight. Presently her slender frame is torn by those cruel, yet
merciful sobs!

CHAPTER XL.

"The sense of death is most in apprehension."

"Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure."

It is destined to be a day of grief! Monkton who had been out all the
morning, having gone to see the old people, a usual habit of his, had
not returned to dinner--a very unusual habit with him. It had occurred,
however, once or twice, that he had stayed to dine with them on such
occasions, as when Sir George had had a troublesome letter from his
elder son, and had l