to the west. Three miles out he turned
into a bridle-path that led up to a height. Presently he came in sight
of the top. The shadows were thick about him, but above the sunset
flushed splendidly. On the crest sat two riders, close together. He
bowed his head and rode away.

"Harry, you are a coward!" Cora was saying. "Oh, I wish I were a man!"
She raised her arm with a passionate gesture. "We loved each other
from the first, and he drove you away. I never cared for him; I had to
marry him. And I tell you we live in misery. We are nothing but a
torment to each other. And you do not know him. He is in love with
another woman, and he is cruel. Look here!"

She threw back her mantle and slid her supple shoulder out of her
dress.

"Those are the marks of his fingers!"

His gaze was bent upon her, his eyes seemed drawn beyond his control;
he trembled, and caught his breath. But he broke the spell. He sat up.
He found his voice, thick and low:

"Don't tempt me. I am his friend; you are his wife."

She looked to right and left, then turned and took hold of his arm.

"Listen to me!" she commanded. "Bend down your head,--lower, lower!"
She looked in his face intently; she put her own close and said, "I am
not his wife!"

A dumb, incredulous stare was his reply. He frowned and shook his
head.

"You don't believe me?" she cried. "Come home, I will show you."

She turned her horse, struck him with the whip, and plunged recklessly
down the steep path. He could not overtake her till she reined up and
walked through the village street.

"Go into the parlor," she said, "and wait till I come."

She ran up-stairs. She asked for Lawrence. He was out,--would not be
back till eight. She looked at her watch. Not quite seven. From a
locked drawer she took a locked jewel-box and from under the lining a
written paper with a printed slip pinned to it.

She came down and into the parlor with her hand in her pocket, walked
up to Loramer where he stood before the fire, gave him the paper, and
sat down to watch him. It was a certificate of marriage between Cora
Brainard and Clarence A. Harlow, dated three years back, and signed by
an eccentric clergyman, across the mountain. A feeling of sickness
came over Loramer.

"Then you are Harlow's wife," he said.

"No, I am no man's wife," she answered, impatiently. "Read on; read
the newspaper slip."

He read: "On board U. S. S. 'Tuscaloosa,' off Cherbourg, Oct. 20th,
Ensign Clarence