own and
waited in a painful stillness.

Presently the door opened, and Cayley entered. She started to her feet
with a stifled, bitter cry: "Oh, Harry!"

He hurried to her with arms outstretched, for she swayed; but she
straightway recovered herself, and, leaning against a chair, steadied to
his look.

"Why have you come here?" she whispered. "To say good-bye for always,"
was his reply.

"And why--for always?" She was very white and quiet.

"Because we are not likely ever to meet again."

"Where are you going?" she anxiously asked. "God knows!"

Strange sensations were working in her. What would be the end of this?
Her husband, knowing all, had permitted this man to come to her alone.
She had loved him for years; though he had deserted her years ago, she
loved him still--did she love him still?

"Will you not sit down?" she said with mechanical courtesy.

A stranger would not have thought from their manner that there were
lives at stake. They both sat, he playing with the leaves of an orchid,
she opening and shutting her fan absently. But she was so cold she could
hardly speak. Her heart seemed to stand still.

"How has the world used you since we met last?" she tried to say
neutrally.

"Better, I fear, than I have used it," he answered quietly.

"I do not quite see. How could you ill-use the world?" There was faint
irony in her voice now. A change seemed to have come upon her.

"By ill-using any one person we ill-use society--the world"--he
meaningly replied.

"Whom have you ill-used?" She did not look at him.

"Many--you chiefly."

"How have you--most-ill-used me?"

"By letting you think well of me--you have done so, have you not?"

She did not speak, but lowered her head, and caught her breath
slightly. There was a silence. Then she said: "There was no reason why I
should--But you must not say these things to me. My husband--"

"Your husband knows all."

"But that does not alter it," she urged firmly. "Though he may be
willing you should speak of these things, I am not."

"Your husband is a good fellow," he rejoined. "I am not."

"You are not?" she asked wearily.

"No. What do you think was the reason that, years ago, I said we could
never be married, and that we must forget each other?"

"I cannot tell. I supposed it was some duty of which I could not know.
There are secret and sacred duties which we sometimes do not tell, even
to our nearest and dearest... but I said we should not spea