king from her eyes that day in the orange grove; this would remain
unchanged, unconquered, though he should have carried her away from
everybody, to the ends of the earth, and though--she loved him.

He buried his face in his hands. No, first of all she must not die. For
there was always the chance that Lanse himself might die; this did not
seem to him a murderous thought, as it had seemed to Celestine. It came
across him suddenly that Lanse would probably be quite willing to
discuss it with him; he would say, "Well, you know, I perfectly
appreciate how convenient it would be." Lanse had no fear of death. He
called it "a natural change;" none but a fool, he said, could fear the
natural.

Winthrop got up at last and went to the window. The brilliantly lighted
street lay below him, but he was not thinking of New York. He was
thinking of that old gray-white house in the South, the house he had
been fond of, but whose door was now closed to him, perhaps forever.
For, unexplainably, though he hoped for Lanse's death, he had not the
slightest expectation of it in reality; both he and Margaret had the
sense of a long life before them. There would be no change, no relief;
only the slow flight of the long days and years, and that would be all.
He came back to his hearth; the fire had died; he sat down and stared at
the ashes.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

"How will she appear?" said Mr. Moore. He sat in his arm-chair, his eyes
were following the pattern of the red and white matting on the floor.

"'How,' Middleton?" said Penelope, looking up from her knitting
reproachfully. "Why, broken-hearted, poor child!"

"Yes, broken-hearted, I fear; broken-hearted," answered Middleton.

Two years had passed since the burning of the house on the point. Mr.
Moore was now quite well again, save that he would always be obliged to
walk slowly and support himself with a cane. The rectory was more
comfortable than it had been in former years, the rector's clerical coat
was a better one; but the rector's wife, with that unconsciousness of
her own lacks, which, when it is founded (as in this case) upon a
husband's unswerving admiration, is not without its charm--the rector's
wife was contentedly attired in the green delaine. Penelope indeed had
many causes for contentment; it was so delightful to be able to give
five-sixths of one's income to the poor.

At the present moment the Moores were listening for the sound of
wheels; not the usual rattl