eful of
mind, tracing out some hidden thing, following out some instinct quite
foreign to humanity. I remember that presently I involuntarily clasped
my hands together, and felt that they were very cold. Perspiration broke
out on my face. I was painfully, unnaturally moved, and a violent desire
to be away from this white moving thing came over me. Walking as softly
as I could, I went to my dressing-room, shut the door, and sat down on a
chair. I never remember to have felt thoroughly unnerved before, but now
I found myself actually shaken, palsied. I could understand how deadly
a thing fear is. I lit a candle hastily, and as I did so a knock came to
the door.

Margot's voice said, "May I come in?" I felt unable to reply, so I got
up and admitted her.

She entered smiling, and looking such a child, so innocent, so tender,
that I almost laughed aloud. That I, a man, should have been frightened
by a child in a white dress, just because the twilight cast a phantom
atmosphere around her! I held her in my arms, and I gazed into her blue
eyes.

She looked down, but still smiled.

"Where have you been, and what have you been doing?" I asked gaily.

She answered that she had been in the drawing-room since tea-time.

"You came here straight from the drawing-room?" I said.

She replied, "Yes."

Then, with an indifferent air which hid real anxiety, I said:

"By the way, Margot, have you been into that room again--the room you
fancied you recollected?"

"No, never," she answered, withdrawing herself from my arms. "I
don't wish to go there. Make haste, Ronald, and dress. It is nearly
dinner-time, and I am ready." And she turned and left me.

She had told me a lie. All my feelings of uneasiness and discomfort
returned tenfold.

That evening was the most wretched one, the only wretched one, I had
ever spent with her.

*****

I am tired of writing. I will continue my task to-morrow. It takes me
longer than I anticipated. Yet even to tell everything to myself brings
me some comfort. Man must express himself; and despair must find a
voice.

III.

_Thursday Night, December 5th_.

That lie awoke in me suspicion of the child I had married. I began to
doubt her, yet never ceased to love her. She had all my heart, and must
have it till the end. But the calm of love was to be succeeded by love's
tumult and agony. A strangeness was creeping over Margot. It was as if
she took a thin veil in her hands, and drew it ove