me time I trust I shall feel like thanking you for
what was undoubtedly intended, on your part, as kindness," she said.

"It was never intended for kindness at all," said Newell bluntly. "It
was never but one thing, Gardis, and you know it; and that one thing is,
and always will be, love. Not 'always will be,' though; I should not say
that. A man can conquer an unworthy love if he chooses."

"Unworthy?" said Gardis involuntarily.

"Yes, unworthy; like this of mine for you. A woman should be gentle,
should be loving; a woman should have a womanly nature. But
you--you--you do not seem to have anything in you but a foolish pride. I
verily believe, Gardis Duke, that, if you loved me enough to die for me,
you would still let me go out of that door without a word, so deep, so
deadly is that pride of yours. What do I want with such a wife? No. My
wife must love me--love me ardently, as I shall love her. Farewell, Miss
Duke; I shall not see you again, probably. I will send a lawyer out to
complete the sale."

He was gone, and Gardis stood alone in the darkening room. Gardiston
House, where she had spent her life--Gardiston House, full of the
memories and associations of two centuries--Gardiston House, the living
reminder and the constant support of that family pride in which she had
been nurtured, her one possession in the land which she had so loved,
the beautiful, desolate South--would soon be hers no longer. She began
to sob, and then when the sound came back to her, echoing through the
still room, she stopped suddenly, as though ashamed. "I will go abroad,"
she said; "there will be a great deal to amuse me over there." But the
comfort was dreary; and, as if she must do something, she took a candle,
and slowly visited every room in the old mansion, many of them long
unused. From garret to cellar she went, touching every piece of the
antique furniture, folding back the old curtains, standing by the
dismantled beds, and softly pausing by the empty chairs; she was saying
farewell. On Cousin Copeland's desk the wreath still lay; in that room
she cried from sheer desolation. Then, going down to the dining-room,
she found her solitary repast awaiting her, and, not to distress old
Dinah, sat down in her accustomed place. Presently she perceived smoke,
then a sound, then a hiss and a roar. She flew up stairs; the house was
on fire. Somewhere her candle must have started the flame; she
remembered the loose papers in Cousin Copelan