y from her.

She, after looking at the pocket-book still for some moments, seemed to
force herself away. He heard her open the door, and did not try to stay
her.

Half an hour later, Wilfrid restored the letters to their place in the
drawer. If they were to be destroyed, it must now be in Beatrice's
presence. With something like joy he turned the key upon them, feeling
that they were preserved, that the last farewell was once again
postponed. Wilfrid was not a very strong man where sacrifice 'was
demanded of him.

He neither saw nor heard from Beatrice till the evening of the following
day. Then it happened that they had to dine at the same house. On
meeting her in the drawing-room, he gave her his hand as usual; hers
returned no pressure. She seemed as cheerful as ever in her talk with
others; him she kept apart from. He could not make up his mind to write.
She had refused to accept such proof of his sincerity as it wag in his
power to offer, and Wilfrid made this an excuse--idle as he knew it to
be--for maintaining a dignified silence. Dignified, he allowed himself
to name it; yet he knew perfectly well that his attitude had one very
ignoble aspect, since he all but consciously counted upon Beatrice's
love to bring her back to his feet. He said to himself: Let her
interpret my silence as she will; if she regard it as evidence of
inability to face her--well, I make no objection. The conviction all the
while grew in him that he did veritably love her, for he felt that, but
for his knowledge of her utter devotedness, he would now be in fear lest
he should lose her. Such fear need not occupy a thought; a word, and she
flew to him. He enjoyed this sense of power; to draw out the
misunderstanding a little would make reconciliation all the pleasanter.
Then the letters should flame into ashes, and with them vanish even the
regret for the blessedness they had promised.

Wednesday morning, and still no letter from Beatrice. Mr. Athel joked
about her speedy resignation of the secretaryship. Wilfrid joined in the
joke, and decided that he would wait one more day, knowing not what a
day might bring forth.

CHAPTER XXII

HER PATH IN THE SHADOW

Yielding to the urgency of Beatrice, who was supported in her entreaty
by Mrs. Birks, Wilfrid had, a little ere this, consented to sit for his
portrait to an artist, a friend of the family, who had already made a
very successful picture of Beatrice herself. The artist reside