to the asp,
When the dayspring in darkness closes,
As the sunset fades from the hills,
With the fragrance of perished roses,
And the music of parched-up rills.

A. L. Gordon.

It had been the darkest chapter of her life, that fatal month in Paris,
when she had foolishly and recklessly placed herself in the power of a
man so unscrupulous and so devoid of principle as Lucien D'Arblet.

It had begun in all innocence--on her part, at least. She had been very
miserable; she had discovered to the full how wild a mistake her marriage
had been. She had felt herself to be fatally separated from Maurice, the
man she loved, for ever; and Monsieur D'Arblet had been kind to her; he
had pitied her for being tied to a husband who drank and who gambled, and
Helen had allowed herself to be pitied. D'Arblet had charming manners,
and an accurate knowledge of the weakness of the fair sex; he knew when
to flatter and when to cajole her, when to be tenderly sympathetic to her
sorrows, and when to divert her thoughts to brighter and pleasanter
topics than her own miseries. He succeeded in fascinating her completely.
Whilst her husband was occupied with his own disreputable friends, Helen,
sooner than remain alone in their hotel night after night, was persuaded
to accept Monsieur D'Arblet's escort to theatres and operas, and other
public places, where her constant presence with him very soon compromised
her amongst the few friends who knew her in Paris.

Then came scenes with her husband; frantic letters of misery to this
French vicomte, whom she imagined to be so devotedly attached to her,
and, finally, one ever-to-be-repented letter, in which she offered to
leave her husband for ever and to come to him.

True, this letter did not reach its destination till too late, and Helen
was mercifully saved from the fate which, in her wicked despair, she was
ready to rush upon. Twenty-four hours after her return to England she saw
the horrible abyss upon which she had stood, and thanked God from the
bottom of her heart that she had been rescued, in spite of herself, from
so dreadful a deed. But the letter had been written, and was in Lucien
D'Arblet's possession. Later on she learnt, by a chance conversation, the
true character of the man, and shuddered when she remembered how nearly
she had wrecked her whole life for him. And when her husband's death had
placed her once more in the security and affluence of her grandfather's
hous