e who most heartily
condemned him and believed in his guilt."

"When you see him, all will be well. But he should be told; you will
see to that."

"Of course, darling. He is coming home next week. But how shall I meet
him and say all this to him! The very thought of it is terrible."

"Next week?--so soon?"

"Yes; I had a line from him this morning,--the only one he wrote me
since his departure; but that was my own fault. I am almost sorry he
is coming now," says Mrs. Branscombe, nervously. "I shall dread the
look in his eyes when I confess to him how readily I believed in that
false rumor."

"You hardly deserve pity," says Clarissa, suddenly, turning upon her
with some just anger. "You undervalued him all through. Instead of
going 'down on your knees to thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's
love,' you deliberately flung it away. How different it has been with
me! I trusted blindly, and see my reward! Even yet I cannot realize
it. It seems like some strange horrible nightmare, from which I must
awake. Yesterday I was so happy; to-day----"

She breaks down, and bursts into bitter weeping.

Georgie throws herself on her knees before her.

* * * * *

"Is this your luggage, sir? Glad to see you back again, sir."

"Thank you, Jeffers. Yes, that is mine. All right at home, I hope?
Your mistress quite well?"

"Quite well, sir. She is at home, awaiting you."

Dorian turns away with a bitter smile. "At home, awaiting him!" What a
wretched fool he once was, when he used to really picture to himself a
fair fond woman waiting and longing for his return, whenever Fate had
called him from her side!

Arriving at Sartoris, he runs up the stairs to his own room, meeting
no one on his way. He smiles again--the same unlovely smile--as he
tells himself that Jeffers exaggerated the case a little,--as,
plainly, Georgie has taken special pains to be out of the way to avoid
meeting him on his first arrival.

Opening his door, he goes in, closing it firmly behind him. Everything
in the room is just as he had left it. Nothing has been changed; the
very book he had been reading is lying now open at the page he had
last looked into. A glorious fire is burning in the grate. A delicate
Bohemian vase is filled with some rare sweet flowers.

Whose hand had gathered them? If it was one of the servants, it was
very thoughtful. He is very fond of flowers. He moves listlessly
about, wondering vaguely how