part,'" said Edith, to herself. "Not 'until death or
divorce do us part'; nor yet 'until I see someone else I like better';
not even 'until you see someone else you like better,' And, again,
'forsaking all others keep thee only unto me so long as we both shall
live.'"

Suppose he had violated his oath, consented to accept freedom at her
hands, and gone his way? Would not the solemn words she had spoken at
the altar still be binding upon her? She saw, now, that they would be,
and that whatever compromise he might have been able to make with his
own conscience, to be legally justified later, she was irrevocably
bound, until death should divide them one from the other.

She smiled sadly, for it was, indeed, a confused and muddled world.
Things moved crazily, depending wholly upon blind chance. One works
steadily, even for years, bending all his energies to one single point,
and what is the result? Nothing! Another turns the knob of a door, walks
into a strange room, or, perhaps, writes a letter, and from that moment
his whole life is changed, for destiny lurks in hinges and abides upon
the written page.

For days, for months even, no single action may be significant, and
again, upon another day, a thoughtless word, or even a look, may be as a
pebble cast into deep waters, to reach, by means of ever-widening
circles, some distant, unseen shore.

[Sidenote: The One Affected]

All this had come from a single sentence. Louise Archer, upon her
death-bed, had harked back to her school days, and, thinking fondly of
Virginia Marsh, had bade her daughter go to her if she felt the need of
a mother's counsel when her own mother was past the power of giving it.
Years afterward, during a day of despondency, Edith had remembered. The
pebble had fallen deep and far and had become still again, but its final
circle had that day touched the ultimate boundary made by three lives.

It had, of course, made no difference to Madame, but two men and a woman
had been profoundly shaken by it, though not moved from their original
position. They would all stay where they were, of course--Alden with his
mother, and Edith with her husband. Then, with a shock, Edith remembered
Rosemary--she was the one who had been swept aside as though by a tidal
wave.

Poor Rosemary! Edith's heart throbbed with understanding pity for the
girl who had lost all. She had not asked how it had happened, merely
accepting Alden's exultant announcement. Now she hoped