er surface were the twisted boughs of the cypresses of the swamp
beyond,--boughs funereally draped, as though to proclaim a warning of
unknown perils in the dark places. On that side where I stood ancient
oaks thrust their gnarled roots into the water, and these knees were
bridged by treacherous platforms of moss. As I sought for a safe
resting-place a dull splash startled me, the pink-and-white water lilies
danced on the ripples, and a long, black snout pushed its way to the
centre of the bayou and floated there motionless.

I sat down on a wide knee that seemed to be fashioned for the purpose,
and reflected. It may have been about half-past five, and I made up my
mind that, rather than return and risk explanations, I would wait where
I was until Mrs. Temple appeared. I had much to think of, and for the
rest the weird beauty of the place, with its changing colors as the
sun fell, held me in fascination. When the blue vapor stole through the
cypress swamp, my trained ear caught the faintest of warning sounds.
Mrs. Temple was coming.

I could not repress the exclamation that rose to my lips when she stood
before me.

"I have changed somewhat," she began quite calmly; "I have changed since
you were at Temple Bow."

I stood staring at her, at a loss to know whether by these words she
sought to gain an advantage. I knew not whether to pity or to be angry,
such a strange blending she seemed of former pride and arrogance and
later suffering. There were the features of the beauty still, the
eyes defiant, the lips scornful. Sorrow had set its brand upon this
protesting face in deep, violet marks under the eyes, in lines which no
human power could erase: sorrow had flecked with white the gold of the
hair, had proclaimed her a woman with a history. For she had a new and
remarkable beauty which puzzled and astonished me,--a beauty in which
maternity had no place. The figure, gowned with an innate taste in
black, still kept the rounded lines of the young woman, while about the
shoulders and across the open throat a lace mantilla was thrown. She
stood facing me, undaunted, and I knew that she had come to fight for
what was left her. I knew further that she was no mean antagonist.

"Will you kindly tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of
this--summons, Mr. Ritchie?" she asked. "You are a travelled person for
one so young. I might almost say," she added with an indifferent laugh,
"that there is some method and purpose in