d that he had come through the operation with his life, I
knew instantly what wicked hope must have been hiding in my heart. A
sickening disappointment crept like poison through my blood. I had to
do my duty, though, and live up to the obligations I'd undertaken so
recklessly. After a few weeks, mother and I brought the invalid
home--to the home my beloved one had given me! My life seems to have
been one long series of mistakes, but I don't think I've sinned enough
to deserve the punishment I have to endure now. It is too much for me.
How am I to bear it, and keep my soul's honor? The memory of my love,
his ways, and his looks follow me from room to room of his house, and
walk with me by the dear lake, and in the garden paths. I might have
found peace if I'd left myself a right to live with that memory. But I
haven't. I've put a man in _his_ place, a man whose body is helpless as
that of a little child, yet whose soul is a giant of hateful jealousy.
He is jealous of the dead. I hadn't guessed a man could be like that. I
must tell you no more. I must try not to be cruel or utterly disloyal
both to living and dead--and to my own self-respect, such as I have
left.

"I have kept my love's name. I bargained for that, before I promised my
cousin to marry him. It was the one possession I couldn't consent to
give up. If you will stand by me as my friend after all this that I've
told you--if you can say that, in spite of everything, I have any right
to the comfort you've given, address your next letter to Lady Denin.

"Yours gratefully, from the heart, whatever your decision may be. B. D."

CHAPTER XI

If he would "stand by her, as her friend"?

Denin could not wait to write. He cabled recklessly. "You have done no
wrong. Take all the comfort you need. What you suffer is not
punishment. It is martyrdom."

"God help her!" he prayed. "And let me help her, too--my Barbara!"

He thought of the girl yearningly, as of a tortured child with the
heart of a woman. His pain was peace compared to hers; and it was
he--the blind man he called "clear-seeing"--who had thrown her to the
wolves. If he had not been too blind to see her love, he would have
shown his for her as he had not dared to show it, that day in the old
garden. Their marriage would have been a real marriage, binding Barbara
so indissolubly to him that not to save a life could she have broken
the bond. By this time, they would have been together in their home,