ely, he would return. And she would throw herself at
his feet, acknowledge her fault, and plead--yes, beg for his forgiveness.
Anything, only to have peace between them once more!

She could not write to him, for he had not left his address. The next
morning, she went down to the store, but they knew nothing of his
destination, or his probable time of absence. So all she could do was
to return home and wait.

A week passed--ten days--and still he did not return, and no tidings of
him had reached his agonized wife.

PART IV.

Louis Castrani received, one day, an urgent summons to Boston. It was the
very day following that on which he had been an unwilling listener to the
difficulty between Mr. and Mrs. Trevlyn. He knew from whom the summons
came. Once before he had been suddenly called in like manner.

A wretched woman she was now--but once the belle and beauty of the fair
Cuban town where Castrani's childhood and youth had been spent. She had
been a beautiful orphan, adopted by his parents, and brought up almost as
his sister. Perhaps, in those days, when they played together under the
soft Southern skies, he knew no difference.

Now she was dying. So said the message. Dying, and burdened with a
secret which she could confess to no ears save his. Before, when he had
gone to her, she had rallied after his arrival, and had declined making
confession. She should never speak of it, she said, until her death was
sure. But when she felt dissolution drawing nigh, she should send for
him again. And the summons had come. He obeyed it in haste, and one night
just before sunset, he stood by her bedside.

Once, she had been beautiful, with such beauty as a pure complexion,
black eyes, raven hair and perfect features confer; but now she was a
wreck. The pure, transparent complexion was pale as marble--the brilliant
eyes sunken--the magnificent hair bleached white as the wintry snow.

She welcomed him brokenly, her eyes lighting up with the pleasure of
seeing him--and then the light faded away, leaving her even more ghastly
than before.

"They tell me I am dying," she said, hoarsely. "Do you think so?"

He smoothed back the hair on the forehead--damp already with the dews of
death. His look assured her better than the words he could not bring
himself to speak.

"My poor Arabel!"

"Arabel! Who calls me Arabel?" she asked, dreamily. "I have not heard
that name since _he_ spoke it! What a sweet voice he had! O, _so