le against the world's scorn; she had been
either on the offensive or the defensive from childhood to womanhood,
and then she had caught one glimpse of light and warmth, clung to it
yearningly for one brief hour, and lost it.

Only to-day she had learned that she had lost it through treachery.
She had not dared to believe in her bliss, even during its fairest
existence; and so, when light-hearted, handsome Dan Morgan's rival had
worked against him with false stories and false proofs, her fierce pride
had caught at them, and her revenge had been swift and sharp. But it had
fallen back upon her own head now. This very morning handsome Dan had
come back again to Arle, and earned his revenge, too, though he had
only meant to clear himself when he told her what chance had brought
to light. He had come back--her lover, the man who had conquered and
sweetened her bitter nature as nothing else on earth had power to do--he
had come back and found her what she was--the wife of a man for whom she
had never cared, the wife of the man who had played them both false, and
robbed her of the one poor gleam of joy she had known. She had been hard
and wild enough at first, but just now, when she slipped down upon the
door-step with her back turned to the wretched man within--when it came
upon her that, traitor as he was, she herself had given him the right
to take her bright-faced lover's place, and usurp his tender power--when
the fresh sea-breeze blew upon her face and stirred her hair, and the
warm, rare sunshine touched her, even breeze and sunshine helped her
to the end, so that she broke down into a sharp sob, as any other woman
might have done, only that the repressed strength of her poor warped
nature made it a sob sharper and deeper than another woman's would have
been.

"Yo' mought ha' left me that!" she said. "Yo' mought ha' left it to me!
There wur other women as would ha' done yo', there wur no other man on
earth as would do me. Yo' knowed what my life had been, an' how it wur
hand to hand betwixt other folk an' me. Yo' knowed how much I cared fur
him an' what he wur to me. Yo' mought ha' let us be. I nivver harmed
yo'. I wouldna harm yo' so sinful cruel now."

"Wilt ta listen?" he asked, laboring as if for breath.

"Aye," she answered him, "I'll listen, fur tha conna hurt me worser. Th'
day fur that's past an' gone."

"Well," said he, "listen an I'll try to tell yo'. I know it's no use, but
I mun say a word or two. Happ