m to ascend the steps
leading into the conservatory.

"But you?" says he, surprised.

"Let me remain here a little while. I am tired. My head aches, I----"

"Let me stay with you."

"No," smiling faintly. "What I want is to be alone. To feel the silence.
Go. Do not be uneasy about me. Believe me you will be kind if you do as
I ask you."

"It is a command," says he slowly. And slowly, too, he turns away from
her.

Seeing him so uncertain about leaving her, she steps abruptly into a
dark side path, and finding a chair sinks into it.

The soft breaking of the dawn over the tree tops far away seems to add
another pang to the anguish that is consuming her. She covers her face
with her hands.

Oh! if it had all been different. Two lives sacrificed! nay, three! For
surety Isabel cannot care for him. Oh! if it had been she, she
herself--what is there she could not have forgiven him? Nay, she must
have forgiven him, because life without him would have been
insupportable. If only she might have loved him honorably. If only she
might ever love him--successfully--dishonorably!

The thought seems to sting her. Involuntarily she throws up her head and
courts the chill winds of dawn that sweep with a cool touch her burning
forehead.

She had called her proud. Would she herself, then, be less proud? That
Isabel dreads her, half scorns her of late, is well known to her, and
yet, with a very passion of pride, would dare her to prove it. She,
Isabel, has gone even so far as to ask her rival to visit her again in
the early part of the coming year to meet her present friends. So far
that pride had carried her. But pride--was pride love? If she herself
loved Baltimore, would she, even for pride's sake, entreat the woman he
singled out for his attentions to spend another long visit in her
country house? And if Isabel does not honestly love him, why then--is he
not lawful prey for one who can, who does not love him?

One--who loves him. But he--whom does he love?

Torn by some last terrible thought she starts to her feet, and, as
though inaction has become impossible to her, draws her white silken
wrap around her, and sweeps rapidly out of all view of the waning
Chinese lamps into the gray obscurity of the coming day that lies in the
far gardens.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"Song have thy day, and take thy fill of light
Before the night be fallen across thy way;
Sing while he may, man hath no long delight."