; and she knew it, and that made her arm strong to fight,
and her heart strong to die for him. I am nobody--nothing." Then the
scalding tears ran down her cheeks. But soon her pride got the upper
hand, and dried her cheeks, and nearly maddened her.

She began to blush for her love, to blush for her illness. She rose into
that state of exasperation in which persons of her sex do things they
look back upon with wonder, and, strange to say, all this without one
unkind thought of him whose faults she saw, but excused--he was dead.

She now began to struggle visibly, and violently, against her deadly
sorrow. She forced herself to take walks and rides, and to talk, with
nothing to say. She even tried to laugh now and then. She made violent
efforts to be gracious and pitiful to Mr. Coventry, and the next minute
made him suffer for it by treating him like a troublesome hound.

He loved her madly, yet sometimes he felt tempted to kill her, and end
both her torture and his own.

Such was the inner life of Grace Carden for many days; devoid of
striking incident, yet well worthy of study by those who care to pierce
below the surface, and see what passes in the hearts of the unhappy, and
to learn how things come gradually about that sound incredible when
not so traced, yet are natural and almost inevitable results of certain
conflicting passions in a virgin heart.

One day Mr. Carden telegraphed from London to Mr. Coventry at
Hillsborough that he was coming down to Eastbank by the midday express,
and would be glad to meet him there at four o'clock. He also telegraphed
to Grace, and said, "Dinner at five."

Both gentlemen arrived about the same time, a little before dinner.

Soon after dinner was over, Grace observed a restlessness in her
father's manner, which convinced her he had something private to say to
Mr. Coventry. Her suspicions were aroused: she fancied he was going to
encourage Mr. Coventry to court her. Instantly the whole woman was in
arms, and her love for the deceased came rushing back tenfold. She rose,
soon after dinner, and retired to the drawing-room; but, as soon as she
got there, she slipped quietly into the veranda, and lay softly down
upon her couch. The dining-room window was open, and with her quick
ears, she could hear nearly every word.

She soon found that all her bitterness and her preparation for
hostilities were wasted. Her father was telling Mr. Coventry the story
of Richard Martin; only he c