would make the revelation; and that thought alone restrains her.
It will kill me--this agonizing fear and horror! And better so--better
to die now, while he loves me, than live to be loathed when he
discovers the truth!"

Sir Everard Kingsland, riding home in the yellow, wintery sunset, found
my lady lying on a lounge in her boudoir, her maid beside her, bathing
her forehead with eau-de-Cologne.

"Headache again, Harrie?" he said. "You are growing a complete martyr
to that feminine malady of late. I had hoped to find you dressed and
ready to accompany me to The Grange."

"I am sorry, Everard, but this evening it is impossible. Make my
excuses to her ladyship, and tell her I hope to see her soon."

She did not look up as she said it, and her husband, stooping,
imprinted a kiss on the colorless cheek.

"My poor, pale girl! I will send Edwards with an apology to The
Grange, and remain at home with you."

"No!" Harriet cried, hastily; "not on any account. You must not
disappoint your mother, Everard; you must go. There, good-bye! It is
time you were dressing. Don't mind me; I will be better when you
return."

"I feel as though I ought not to leave you to-night," he said. "It
seems heartless, and you ill. I had better send Edwards and the
apology."

"You foolish boy!" She looked up at him and smiled, with eyes full of
tears. "I will be better alone and quiet. Sleep and solitude will
quite restore me. Go! Go! You will be late, and my lady dislikes
being kept waiting."

He kissed her and went, casting one long, lingering backward look at
the wife he loved. And with a pang bitterer than death came the
remembrance afterward of how she had urged him to leave her that night.

Thus they parted--to look into each other's eyes no more, in love and
trust for a dark and tragic time.

Sybilla Silver, standing at the house door, was gazing out, at the
yellow February sun sinking pale and watery into the livid horizon
tine, as the baronet ran down-stairs, drawing on his gloves. He
paused, with his usual courtesy, to speak to his dependent as he went
by.

"The sky yonder looks ominous," he said, "and this wailing, icy blast
is the very desolation of desolation. There is a storm brewing."

Miss Silver's black eyes gleamed, and her white teeth showed in a
sinister smile.

"A storm?" she repeated. "Yes, I think there is, and you will be
caught in it, Sir Everard, if you stay late."

CHAPTER XXI