lite soon fell into a deep sleep.

Her mother sat down by her bed to watch, and told Elva to go downstairs
and help to entertain their guest; and told Luce to leave the room, but to
remain within call.

When the lady was left alone with her sleeping child, and had time to
collect her thoughts, she was divided between a sense of relief in her
daughter's unexpected rescue from the martyrdom of an abhorrent marriage,
and terror as to what the archenemy and artful plotter might do next.

Would he pocket his shame and go back to his own land?

Would he linger in the neighborhood, stubborn, defiant and aggressive, as
he had shown himself in the church?

Above all, would he attempt to see her again, to get any other advantage
over her from the power he possessed in the knowledge of her secret?

He could not insist on any marital rights over Odalite--that was quite
certain now.

Would he demand money as the price of his silence? If so, he should have
all the money she could command of her own by the sale of her jewels,
laces and India shawls, on condition that he should leave the country.

And still her thoughts reverted to the great relief that she felt in the
fact that he could no longer persecute Odalite. The proof of his former
marriage in the substantial presence of his living wife forbade that.

This latter suggested another question:

What under heaven could have caused Angus Anglesea--certainly a gentleman
by birth and position; certainly a man of cultivated mind, fastidious
tastes and of refined manners, except when evil passions got the mastery
and turned him, for the time, into a ruffian--what could have induced such
a man to marry such a woman as she who claimed to be his wife?

In the midst of these speculations, the door opened silently, and Abel
Force entered the room on tiptoes, and silently signaled his wife to come
and speak to him.

She arose and went to meet him.

"How is Odalite?"

"She is sound asleep--so sound that you need not fear to wake her,"
replied the lady.

"But, is that sleep well? She was very lethargic in the church, I noticed.
Had I not better send for a physician?"

"No, no, certainly not. Her sleep is well. It is the effect of an opiate I
gave her. The best treatment under the circumstances. Do not feel the
least anxious as to present or future consequences of this day's events.
Believe me, our child will never break her heart for the loss of that
unmasked villain."

"An