aitor to us both?"

Esterbrook made no answer. He bowed his pale, miserable face before
her, self-condemned.

The breast of the bay sparkled with its countless gems like the breast
of a fair woman. The shores were purple and amethystine in the
distance. Far out, bluish, phantom-like sails clustered against the
pallid horizon. The dory danced like a feather over the ripples. They
were close under the shadow of Chapel Point.

* * * * *

Marian Lesley waited in vain for her lover that afternoon. When he
came at last in the odorous dusk of the June night she met him on the
acacia-shadowed verandah with cold sweetness. Perhaps some subtle
woman-instinct whispered to her where and how he had spent the
afternoon, for she offered him no kiss, nor did she ask him why he had
failed to come sooner.

His eyes lingered on her in the dim light, taking in every detail of
her sweet womanly refinement and loveliness, and with difficulty he
choked back a groan. Again he asked himself what madness had come over
him, and again for an answer rose up the vision of Magdalen Crawford's
face as he had seen it that day, crimsoning beneath his gaze.

It was late when he left. Marian watched him out of sight, standing
under the acacias. She shivered as with a sudden chill. "I feel as I
think Vashti must have felt," she murmured aloud, "when, discrowned
and unqueened, she crept out of the gates of Shushan to hide her
broken heart. I wonder if Esther has already usurped my sceptre. Has
that girl at the Cove, with her pale, priestess-like face and
mysterious eyes, stolen his heart from me? Perhaps not, for it may
never have been mine. I know that Esterbrook Elliott will be true to
the letter of his vows to me, no matter what it may cost him. But I
want no pallid shadow of the love that belongs to another. The hour of
abdication is at hand, I fear. And what will be left for throneless
Vashti then?"

Esterbrook Elliott, walking home through the mocking calm of the
night, fought a hard battle with himself.

He was face to face with the truth at last--the bitter knowledge that
he had never loved Marian Lesley, save with a fond, brotherly
affection, and that he did love Magdalen Crawford with a passion that
threatened to sweep before it every vestige of his honour and
loyalty.

He had seen her but three times--and his throbbing heart lay in the
hollow of her cold white hand.

He shut his eyes and groaned. What