. It led through a dense, semi-tropical forest in the
direction of the swamp beyond, the way being well beaten, but here and
there jealously crowded by an undergrowth of brambles and the prickly
Spanish bayonet. I know not how far I had walked, my head bent in
thought, before I felt the ground teetering under my feet, and there was
the bayou. It was a narrow lane of murky, impenetrable water, shaded now
by the forest wall. Imaged on its amber 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