hipwreck of a life, of lives.

And yet, was there not also a ring of exultation, a challenge in her
last words?

At least, her sorrow was ennobled. She was invested with a sombre
glory, as one who had inspired a rare and perfect devotion.

And, after all, had she not already been considered enough?

A silence ensued, during which Eve seemed to be wrapped in steadfast
thought.

She grew calmer, picking up her bouquet, and sedulously arranging
its disordered foliage; while Lord Overstock, who had arrived with
Mary's fan, poured forth elaborate apologies, protesting that she
must give him another dance--the second extra--to make up for the
time he had lost.

Already the music was beginning for the next dance, and people
passed in couples, laughing and talking gaily, a motley procession,
on their way into the ball-room.

"I thought your brother would have told you," said Mary softly,
bending over her programme and gathering her skirts together with a
suggestion of departure.

"Charles? He was always prejudiced against him--always his enemy!"

"That is why; he is very just, very conscientious. He told me this
afternoon."

Mary's voice sank a little lower. She was standing now. She could
see her prospective partner looking for her. She wondered vaguely
whether Eve accepted the alternative, whether she realized that, to
prove Philip innocent, was to establish her husband's guilt, his
original wrong-doing, and subsequent cowardice.

"But--Charles! How did he know? Does he believe it? Who told him?"

Mary had gently disengaged her arm from Eve's restraining hand. She
stepped back for an instant, excusing herself to her expectant
cavalier.

"One of Philip's friends told him to-day--proved it to him, he says.
It was a Mr. Oswyn."

A minute later Mary found herself in the ball-room, making heroic
efforts to divide her entire attention impartially between the
strains of the band and the remarks of her partner.

She was afraid to pass in review the conduct of those few minutes
which had seemed so long. Had it really all occurred in the interval
between two waltzes?

For the present she drew a mental curtain over the scene. She lacked
the courage to gaze upon her handiwork, although she was not without
a hopeful instinct that, when she criticised it in sober daylight,
she would even approve of what she had done. Her determination did
not, however, carry her further than the middle of the dance.

The room was no