ey should be sure to meet. Miss Charteris
called it her bower; it was a thick cluster of trees under the shade of
which stood a pretty, rustic seat; and Dora thought that, if she placed
herself behind the trees, she would be able to hear all unseen.

Before Ronald partook of breakfast, Dora had quitted the house on her
foolish errand. She knew the way to the house and the entrance to the
garden. She had no fear; even were she discovered there, no one could
surmise more than that she was resting on her way to the house. She
crouched behind the trees and waited. It was wrong, weak, and wicked;
but there was something so pitiful in the white face full of anguish,
that one would hardly know whether to pity or blame her.

The sunshine reached her, the birds were singing in the trees, the
flowers were all blooming--she, in her sorrow and desolation, heeded
nothing. At length she saw them--Valentine in her white morning dress,
her beautiful face full of deep, earnest emotion, and Ronald by her
side. As she surmised, they walked straight to the trees, and
Valentine signed to Ronald to take a seat by her side. Sweetly and
clearly every word she uttered sounded to Ronald, but they fell like
drops of molten lead on the jealous heart of Ronald's wife.

"You must try," Valentine was saying; "I used to think you would be a
hero. You are proving yourself a very weak and erring man."

Dora could not distinguish Ronald's words so plainly; he said something
about life and its mistakes.

"I told you once," said Valentine, "that the man who could endure so
bravely the consequences of his own actions was a true hero. Grant the
worst--that you have made a mistake. You must make the best you can of
it, and you are not doing that now."

"No," he said gravely. "I am very unhappy--more so than you can
imagine, Valentine. Life seems to have lost all its charms for me. I
had such great hopes once, but they are all dead now."

"You are too young to say that," she replied; "a little courage, a
little patience, and all will be well. If it comforts you to know that
my warmest, deepest sympathy is with you--"

Valentine Charteris never finished her sentence; a pale, angry face and
dark, gleaming eyes full of passion suddenly flashed before her.

"You may spare your pity, Miss Charteris," cried a hoarse voice. "Why
have you made my husband dissatisfied with me? Why have you taken his
love from me? Why do you write notes asking h