"what have you done? I
could never have believed this of _you_!"

"What do you mean--what is it you charge me with?"

"_You_, who knew how she loved you--how her whole heart was your own!"

"But what do you impute to me, Milly dearest?"

"How cruel! How cruel!" cried she, wringing her hands.

"I swear to you I do not know of what you accuse me."

"You have broken her heart," cried she vehemently. "She will not survive
this cruel desertion."

"But who accuses me of this?" asked he, indignantly.

"She, herself, does--she did, at least, so long as reason remained
to her; but now, poor darling, her mind is wandering, and she is not
conscious of what she says, and yet her cry is, 'Oh, Joseph, do not
leave me.' Go to him, Milly; on your knees beseech him not to desert me.
That I am in fault I know, but I will never again offend him.' I cannot,
I will not, tell you all the dreadful--all the humiliating things she
says; but through all we can read the terrible trials she must have
sustained at your hands, and how severely you have used her. Come to
her, at least," cried she, taking his arm. "I do not ask or want to know
what has led to this sad scene between you; but come to her before it be
too late."

"Let me first of all tell you, Milly---" He stopped. He meant to have
revealed the truth; but it seemed so ungenerous to be the accuser, that
he stopped, and was silent.

"I don't care to hear anything. You may be as blameless as you like.
What I want is to save her. Come at once."

Without a word he followed her down the stairs, and across the hall, and
up another small stair. "Wait a moment," said she, opening the door, and
then as quickly she turned and beckoned him to enter.

Still dressed, but with her hair falling loose about her, and her
dress disordered, Florence lay on her bed as in a trance--so light her
breathing you could see no motion of the chest Her eyes were partly
opened, and lips parted: but even these gave to her face a greater look
of death.

"She is sleeping at last," whispered Miss Grainger. "She has not spoken
since you were here."

Loyd knelt down; beside: the bed, and pressed his cheek against her cold
hand; and the day dawn, as it streamed in between the shutters, saw him
still there.

CHAPTER XVII. PARTING SORROWS.

HOUR after hour Loyd knelt beside the bed where Florence lay, motionless
and unconscious. Her aunt and sister glided noiselessly about, passed in
and out of the