rnest is below. He is waiting, probably, to
inquire after you. I told him you had long been an invalid. Will you
see him?"

"I would rather not, darling, unless you wish it. Go down a while, and
if he must come up, let me know first."

Slowly she descended the steps, passed through the long hall, and
entered the drawing-room, advancing with quiet dignity to welcome the
distinguished representative.

He listened a moment to her words, so calm and cold; then, clasping
her in his arms, he drew her down beside him, and said:

"Oh, my darling! thank Heaven, I find you still Constance Lyle!"

She tried to draw herself away from his side, but his arms held her
tightly, and his hand clasped hers. His eyes were gazing so earnestly
and lovingly in hers, as in by-gone days. She tried to speak, but he
said:

"Nay, my beautiful love, you must not move or speak until you have
heard me through, and then I shall await your verdict. I know you
think it so strange that I have not been to you before. I have been
the victim of a miserable mistake. The day I entered this city I
walked past here to catch a glimpse of you, perhaps. As I neared the
door, I beheld seated on the steps that pretty little girl that I
afterward saw with you. I stopped, spoke to her, and asked her name.
Constance, she told me, and her father's, Gerald. Oh, my love, the
long years of suspense were ended to me then! I cannot tell you how
dark the world seemed to me then. I struggled on, however, with my
sorrows. Then I met you. Your being with Gerald and having the little
one with you only too truly proved that my conjecture was right. I saw
you, as I believed, the happy wife of Gerald, and knew no difference
until this morning. When I met him then, he stopped and urged me to
come and see him. I asked after his wife, and remarked that time had
changed her but very little, when, to my amazement, he said he did not
know I had ever met Mrs. Moreton. Then came the explanation. I parted
with the noble fellow only a few moments ago, and here I am now. Tell
me, love, that all my waiting--never wandering from my love for you
for an hour, has not been in vain. Speak, love!"

"Ernest Ellwood, what mean you by speaking to me thus? Allow me to
rise. Your mind is certainly very much affected. Nothing but insanity
can excuse this language to me. I will order the carriage to convey
you home to your wife and daughter."

"My wife--oh, yes, now I know. Gerald told me. We have