ndow, and motions her hither. He has been thinking somewhat
bitterly of having to leave his lovely home when he has just won the
right to stay in it tranquilly. A sense of resentment swells up in his
soul.

She listens with gentle respect to his proposed journey, that seems
definitely settled, and replies in a grave, steady tone, not devoid of
interest, "that it will no doubt be very pleasant for him." Objecting
or pleading to accompany him does not really enter her mind.

"What will it be for you?" he asks, in a manner that would be savage
were his breeding less perfect.

Ah, she dare not say! People live through miserable times, sorrow does
not kill them!

He is chagrined, disappointed at her silence. It is unnatural for her
to be so calm. She may even be glad--monstrous thought! His impatience
and resentment are roused.

"Violet," he begins, with a certain asperity, "there occasionally comes
a time in life, married life, when the mistake one has made is realized
in its full force. That we have made a mistake becomes more apparent as
time goes by. If I could give you back your liberty"--and his voice
softens unconsciously--"God knows I would gladly do it. I could not see
how events would shape themselves when I took it from you, and your
father during his illness----"

Her calmness breaks. She throws up her hand in pitiful entreaty, her
old gesture to shelter herself in time of trouble. She cannot have her
father indirectly censured, she cannot listen to that humiliating
episode from _his_ lips. If she understood him better she would know
the almost brutal frankness, a kind of family usage, is not one of his
faults.

"Oh," she cries, in anguish, "I know! I know! You were very good, you
were generous. I know now it was not as most people marry, and that you
could not love me, that you did it to save me, but almost, I think, it
would have been better----" for Jasper Wilmarth to have taken me, she
is on the point of saying, but she ends with a strong, convulsive
shudder.

Who has been so cruel and dastardly as to tell her this? Ah! he guesses
wildly.

"This is Eugene's tale!" he cries, angrily, his face in the white heat
of passion. "He shall answer to me as surely as there is a heaven!" and
he springs up.

Her arms are round him in their frantic endeavor to drag him back, her
face is pressed against his breast, her silken hair blinds his very
eyes.

"You shall not!" she declares, in her brave, unshrinkin