ndefinable attraction compelled her to
raise her eyes. "Good-by," he said, softly pressing her hand.

"Good-by," she answered. Then she quickly drew back her hand and turned
away. As she descended the stairs she felt that he was still looking at
her. She wanted to look back, but she closed her eyes and pressed
closely to her husband's arm till they reached the cloak-room door.
While she and Florence were putting on their wraps, she could hear the
distant strains of music coming from the ball-room; they seemed to her
like the last echo of the love which had flamed so brilliantly for a
moment in her heart, and now must die and become a memory. The music
stopped. "It is all over," she thought; then she hurried away with
Florence and her husband down the great stairway to the street door.
"Mrs. Sanderson's carriage," called a servant on the stairs. "Mrs.
Sanderson's carriage," was echoed from the street. She heard a rumbling
noise of wheels; then the street door opened, and she felt a blast of
cold, refreshing air. "The carriage is here, ma'am," called her footman,
and they passed out into the darkness. At the end of the awning-covered
passage the carriage lamps burned dimly, and she could hear the restless
champing of bits. They reached the carriage and took their places; the
door was closed; the servant mounted the box, the carriage rolled away
crunching the crisp snow under its wheels. Marion sank into a corner and
tried to think. "I did my best," she said to herself again and again. "I
did my best, but it was so hard." Over the snow-muffled stones the
carriage rolled past massive structures, black and silent in the
darkness. Huge, scowling ogres, they seemed to Marion, coldly frowning
their displeasure. On through the darkened streets they went and over
the river bridge; she could see the flickering street lamps faintly
glistening on the ice, and she thought they were feeble hope rays
shining through the darkness. Marion closed her eyes and listened to the
wheels creaking through the snow. How long it was she did not know, but
after a time she felt a sense of stillness. She opened her eyes. They
were home.

CHAPTER VIII.

GATHERING CLOUDS.

"Are you going to the 'Renaissance Club' tea, Marion, dear?" said
Florence Moreland, coming into the library on the afternoon following
the "Patricians'" ball. Marion was sitting on the low front window seat,
and she held a sash curtain crumpled in her hand. Her eyes were