waiting, and going to her side said softly,
as he laid his hand on her shoulder: "Let me take you home; it is
cold, and you are shivering."

She only crouched closer to the spot where they had lain, and talked
on. Thinking she was speaking to him, the man bent his head to listen.
"It is all my fault," he heard her say, "because I had not the
faith--not the right faith--not the faith that Father Benoit
meant--the faith that can remove mountains!"

* * * * *

A Pair of Boots.

CHAPTER I.

THE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE.

"There is nothing but death
Our affections can sever,
And till life's latest breath,
Love shall bind us forever."

The words, as they flowed musically from the throat of the fair singer
at the piano, were inflected with a subtle irony, which caused the
frown to deepen upon the brow of the tall, scholarly, though somewhat
morose-looking man who had entered the parlor soon after the singer
had begun, and who, without glancing in her direction, had seated
himself on one of the many luxurious chairs which strewed the room.

As he sat and listened to the song, sweet and simple in itself, but
made with deft and almost imperceptible intonation on certain words,
clearly for his ear, the stern lines about his mouth visibly deepened.

Finally the song ceased, and the singer swung slowly and noiselessly
round and looked across at her husband, whose back was turned towards
her. From the brilliant look in her eyes, it was evident she was
laboring under suppressed excitement. She was a young woman of about
twenty-six, singularly beautiful and with a fine intellectual cast of
countenance. From her shoulders hung a richly-lined opera cloak,
which, being fastened only at the throat, disclosed a figure of more
than ordinary grace and symmetry.

As her husband continued silent, she presently arose, and with a
peculiar smile playing about her mouth, walked calmly over to him, and
laying her hand on the back of his chair, said, in a voice in which
the same subtle tone was noticeable: "My lord, you see I have obeyed,
and have not gone out without coming here, as commanded by you, to
learn your pleasure regarding my coming in and going out."

Harold Townsley arose hastily, and said sternly and angrily, as he
faced her: "Was it necessary, Grace, to sing that song in such a
manner? Did you wish me to understand through it the state of your
present feelings