erved your anger."

Suddenly his voice broke down, and he went on in a very altered tone:

"Oh, Margharita, my love, my love! Give me one word of hope! Tell me at
least that you are not really angry with me."

And then, without a moment's warning, the fire of indignation which had
leaped up to help me suddenly died out. He was standing respectfully
away from me, pale and dignified. His face was full of emotion, and his
hands were trembling; but some instinct seemed to have told him how I
hated his touch, and he did not attempt even to hold my hand. Oh! that
moment, terrible as it was at the time, will be very sweet to think upon
in after days.

My strength had come to an end. I knew that I was in terrible risk of
undoing all that I had done, but I could not help it. That moment seemed
somehow sacred. Although my whole life was itself a lie, I could not
then have looked in his eyes and spoken falsely. If I had let him see my
face, though only for an instant, he would have known my secret; so I
buried it in my hands, and swept from the room before he could stop me.

Am I more happy or more miserable, I wonder, since he has spoken those
words which seem to be ever ringing in my ears? Both, I think! Life is
more intense; it has other depths now besides that well of hate and pity
which has brought me into this household. At any rate, I have felt
emotions to-night which I never dreamed of before.

If only he knew--knew all, how he would scorn, hate, despise me! How he
would hasten to drive me out of his memory, to crush every tender
thought of me, to purge his heart of love for me, to pluck it up by the
roots and cast it away forever! Would he find it an easy task, I wonder?
Perhaps. He loves his mother so much. Why should he not? So far as he is
concerned, she deserves it. She is a good mother, and a good wife. If it
were not for the past I would call her a good woman. Sometimes I wish
that she were not so, that she was still vain and heartless, the same
woman who, for the sake of an alien and a stranger, brought down a
living death upon the man who had trusted her with his most sacred
secrets; and that man the last of the Marionis, my uncle. I think of it,
and coldness steals once more into my heart. What she is now is of no
account. It is the past for which she must suffer.

CHAPTER XXV

AMONG THE PINE TREES

This morning I heard noises about the house quite early and heavy
footsteps in the drive. I was a