ret for her lost happiness came over her, and she
determined to speak to him about it. She would destroy this shadow that
lay between them; she would dispel the cloud. Surely he would do
anything for her sake--she would have given up the world for him. He was
alone in his study, in the gloaming of a bright day, when she went in to
him and stood once more by his side.

"Lance," she said, bending her fair, sweet face over his, "Lance, I want
to speak to you again. I am not happy, dear--there is a cloud between
us, and it is killing me. You love me, Lance, do you not?"

"You know that I do," he said, but there was no heartiness in his voice.

"I want to tell you, dear, that I have been jealous. I am very unhappy,
but I will conquer myself. I will be to you the most loving wife in all
the world if you will give up Madame Vanira."

He pushed the outstretched hand away.

"You do not know what you are asking," he said, hoarsely, and his manner
so alarmed her that she said no more.

CHAPTER LIII.

A QUARREL.

From that hour all pretense of peace was at an end between them. Lady
Chandos was justly indignant and wounded. If her husband had trusted her
all might, even then, have been well, but he did not; he said to himself
that she would forget the story of her annoyance in time, and all would
be well; he did not give his wife credit for the depth of feeling that
she really possessed. Fiercest, most cruel jealousy had taken hold of
the gentle lady, it racked and tortured her; the color faded from her
face, the light from her eyes; she grew thin and pale; at night she
could not sleep, by day she could not rest; all her sweetness, grace and
amiability, seemed to have given way to a grave sadness; the sound of
her laughter, her bright words, died away; nothing interested her. She
who had never known a trouble or a care, now wore the expression of one
who was heart-broken; she shrunk from all gayety, all pleasures, all
parties; she was like the ghost of her former self; yet after those
words of her husband's she never spoke again of Madame Vanira. The sword
was sheathed in her heart and she kept it there.

There is no pain so cruel as jealousy; none that so quickly deteriorates
a character; it brings so many evils in its train--suspicion, envy,
hatred of life, distrust in every one and in everything; it is the most
fatal passion that ever takes hold of a human heart, and turns the
kindest nature to gall. There was n