ou ask her?"

"Not now. She is too weak to bear a recurrence of agitating scenes."

Mr. Dexter bit his lips firmly as if striving with his feelings.

"When can I see her?"

"That question I am unable now to answer, Mr. Dexter. But my own
opinion is that it will be better for you to see her to-morrow than
to-day: better next week than to-morrow. You must give time for
calmness and reflection."

"She is my wife!" exclaimed Mr. Dexter, not able to control himself.
The manner in which this was said conveyed clearly his thought to
Mrs. Loring, and she replied with equal feeling--

"But not your slave to command!"

"Madam! I warn you not to enter into this league against me--not to
become a party in this wicked scheme! If you do, then you must bear
the consequences of such blind folly. I am not the man to submit
tamely. I will not submit."

"You are simply beating the air," replied Mrs. Loring. "There is no
league against you--no wicked scheme--nothing beyond your own
excited imagination; and I warn you, in turn, not to proceed one
step further in this direction."

"Madam! can I see my wife?" The attitude of Mr. Dexter was
threatening.

"No, sir. Not now," was the firmly spoken answer.

He turned to go.

"Mr. Dexter."

"Well? Say on."

"I do not wish you to call here again."

"Madam! my wife is harboring here."

"I will give my servant orders not to admit you!" said Mrs. Loring,
outraged by this remark.

For an instant Dexter looked as if he would destroy her, were it in
his power, by a single glance; then turning away he left the house,
muttering impotent threats.

And so the breach grew wider.

"I don't wonder that Jessie could not live with him," said Mrs.
Loring to herself. "Such a temper! Dear heart! Who can tell how much
she may have suffered?"

CHAPTER XXI.

ONCE more Jessie found herself alone in the little chamber where her
gentle girlish life, had strengthened towards womanhood. Many times
had she visited this chamber since her marriage, going to it as to
some pilgrim-shrine, but never with the feelings that now crowded
upon her heart. She had returned as a dove, to the ark from the wild
waste of waters, wing-weary, faint, frightened--fluttering into this
holy place, conscious of safety. She was not to go out again.
Blessed thought! How it warmed the life-blood in her heart, and sent
the currents in more genial streams through every vein.

But alas! memory could not die. Lethe