and a man's power to avenge
the foul affront! He--a married man--to come, concealing his bonds,
and playing the part of a lover free to woo--free to approach a woman
and to win her heart! The proud head bent to meet the hands upraised
to cover the pale, drawn face. She loved him and he was unworthy. He
had deceived and lied to her, if not in words, then in actions; knowing
himself bound to another woman, he had deliberately sought her out and
made her love him. It was cruel, cruel! All along she had played
virgin gold against base metal, and now she was bankrupt.

When the burning, maddening sense of outrage had passed, and pride
stood with lowered crest and listless hands, love lifted its head and
tried to speak. He was not without excuse, love pleaded; his life had
been miserable; his lot hard and unendurable; he had been given a stone
for bread, and for wine, the waters of Marah. Until the night of the
ball he had retained mastery over himself--had held his love in check.
Then memory roused herself and entered testimony--words, looks, tender,
graceful attentions thronged back upon her, and pride caught love by
the throat and cried out that there was no excuse.

Perhaps, she pondered heavily, he, too, writhed beneath this avalanche
of pain; perhaps remorse and the consciousness of the anguish he had
entailed upon them both tore and lacerated him. He had gone away at
last, out of her life, back to the home and the ties that were hateful
to him. He had gone away to take up his share of their joint burden,
and he would be merciful, and never cross her path again.

But would he? The girl quivered, her hand sought the pocket of her
dress, and her eyes glanced forlornly around the room like the eyes of
a hunted creature. She recalled something that the morning's post had
brought her--something that had seemed sweet and fair, something that
had caused her pulses to thrill, all day, with exultant happiness.

Only a New Year card; a graceful white-fringed thing, showing a handful
of blue forget-me-nots, thrown carelessly beside an old anchor on a bit
of golden sand. Pocahontas laid it on her lap and gazed at it with
strained, tearless eyes, and read anew its sweet message of remembrance
and hope. She had been startled by Thorne's sudden departure, but had
quietly accepted the message of explanation and farewell sent her by
Blanche; she trusted him too implicitly to doubt that what he did was
best and wisest, a