e.

"No."

"You doubt me? Oh, I have not made you feel your danger! You think I
am an impostor!"

"No," said the girl, in the same quiet tone; "something here," putting
her hand upon her bosom, "tells me that you are sincere. My own heart
has abandoned me; it will not let me doubt you, much as I wish to. I
cannot thank you for making my heart ache,--please go."

Still with that air of unnatural calm, she arose and walked to the
window.

Of the two, Olive Girard was by far the more agitated. "Tell me," she
said, in eager entreaty; "oh, tell me, you are not going with _him_?"

Madeline turned sharply around. "I shall not add myself to the list of
his victims," she said, briefly.

And then the two gazed at each other in silence for a moment.

"This is madness," said Olive, at length. "What rash thing do you
meditate? I will not leave you to face this man alone; I dare not do
it."

Madeline came from the window and stood directly before her. "I am not
the weak child you think me. You can do nothing but harm by remaining
here. I will meet Lucian Davlin, and part with him in my own way," she
said, between her teeth.

Olive saw, in the set face, and stern eye, that she was indeed dealing
with a character stubborn as death, and devoid of all fear. She
dreaded to leave her thus, but felt assured that she could do nothing
else.

"Will you come to me afterward?" she asked. "You have no friends here,
you tell me, and you need a friend now. Promise me this and I will
go."

"Thank you," said the girl, wearily; "at least I promise to go to no
one else; good-by."

Turning away, she resumed her position at the window, and never looked
once at Olive after that.

"I will write my address on this card," said Olive. She did so; then
turning on the girl a look full of pitying tenderness, said: "I need
not tell you to be brave; I should rather bid you be cautious.
Remember, your life is worth more than the love and loss of such a
man. Put this behind you, and come to me soon, believing that you are
not friendless."

She lowered her veil and, casting one more wistful glance at the
silent figure by the window, went out and closed the door softly.

CHAPTER VII.

A STRUGGLE FOR MORE THAN LIFE.

It is a fortunate provision of Providence that calamity comes upon us,
in most cases, with a force so sudden and overwhelming that it is
rather seen than felt. As we realize the full torture of an ugly
wound, not when the