ture in it.

When her task is finished, she looks at it once again, and then laughs
softly to herself,--a sneering unlovable laugh full of self-contempt.
Her whole expression is unforgiving, yet suggestive of deep regret.
Somehow, at this moment his last words came back to her and strike
coldly on her heart: "I wish to be alone!"

"Alone!" How sadly the word had fallen from his lips! How stern his
face had been, how broken and miserable his voice! Some terrible grief
was tearing at his heart, and there was no one to comfort or love him,
or----

She gets up from her chair, and paces the room impatiently, as though
inaction had ceased to be possible to her. An intense craving to see
him again fills her soul. She must go to him, if only to know what he
has been doing since last she left him. Acting on impulse, she goes
quickly down the stairs, and across the hall to the library, and
enters with a beating heart.

All is dark and dreary enough to chill any expectant mind. The fire,
though warm and glowing still, has burned to a dull red, and no bright
flames flash up to illumine the gloom. Blinded by the sudden change
from light to darkness, she goes forward nervously until she reaches
the hearth-rug: then she discovers that Dorian is no longer there.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows;
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain."--DRAYTON.

Not until Mrs. Branscombe has dismissed her maid for the night does
she discover that the plain gold locket in which she had placed
Dorian's picture is missing. She had (why, she hardly cares to explain
even to herself) hung it round her neck; and now, where is it?

After carefully searching her memory for a few moments, she remembers
that useless visit to the library before dinner, and tells herself she
must have dropped it then. She will go and find it. Slipping into a
pale-blue dressing-gown, that serves to make softer and more adorable
her tender face and golden hair, she thrusts her feet into slippers of
the same hue, and runs down-stairs for the third time to-day, to the
library.

Opening the door, the brilliant light of many lamps greets her, and,
standing by the fire is her husband, pale and haggard, with the
missing locket in his hand. He has opened it, and is gazing at his own
face with a strange expression.

"Is this yours?" he asks, as she comes up to