he gave any further thought to Africa.

The slowest hours, days the most wearisome, long nights that know not
sleep, must end at last. The first of August dawned, a long streak of
red light in the clear gray east. Vixen saw the first glimmer as she
lay wide awake in her big old bed, staring through the curtainless
windows to the far sea-line, above which the morning sky grew red.

"Hail, Rorie's wedding-day!" she cried, with a little hysterical laugh;
and then she buried her face in the pillow and sobbed aloud--sobbed as
she had not done till now, through all her weary exile.

There had been no earthquake; this planet we live on had not rolled
backwards in space; all things in life pursued their accustomed course,
and time had ripened into Roderick Vawdrey's wedding-day.

"I did think _something_ would happen," said Vixen piteously. "It was
foolish, weak, mad to think so. But I could not believe he would marry
anyone but me. I did my duty, and I tried to be brave and steadfast.
But I thought something would happen."

A weak lament from the weak soul of an undisciplined girl. The red
light grew and glowed redder in the east, and then the yellow sun shone
through gray drifting clouds, and the new day was born. Slumber and
Violet had parted company for the last week. Her mind had been too full
of images; the curtain of sleep would not hide them. Frame and mind
were both alike worn out, as she lay in the broadening light, lonely,
forsaken, unpitied, bearing her great sorrow, just as she must have
borne the toothache, or any other corporal pain.

She rose at seven, feeling unspeakably tired, dressed herself slowly
and dawdlingly, thinking of Lady Mabel. What an event her rising and
dressing would be this morning--the flurried maids, the indulgent
mother; the pure white garments, glistening in the tempered sunlight;
the luxurious room, with its subdued colouring, its perfume of
freshly-cut flowers; the dainty breakfast-tray, on a table by an open
window; the shower of congratulatory letters, and the last delivery of
wedding gifts. Vixen could imagine the scene, with its every detail.

And Roderick, what of him? She could not so easily picture the
companion of her childhood on this fateful morning of his life. She
could not imagine him happy: she dared not fancy him miserable. It was
safer to make a great effort and shut that familiar figure out of her
mind altogether.

Oh, what a dismal ceremony the eight--o'clock bre