is faithful lover upon the same
subject, I fear me that I should receive a widely different answer."

"I hope not, dear," says Marcia, gently, speaking in her usual soft,
low tone. Yet a small cold finger has been laid upon her heart. A dim
foreboding crushes her. Only a little pallor, so slight as to be
imperceptible to her tormentor, falls across the upper part of her face
and tells how blood has been drawn. Yet it is hardly the mere piercing
of the skin that hurts us most; it is in the dark night hours when the
wound rankles that our agony comes home to us.

"When is this girl coming?" asks the old man, presently, in a peevish
tone, vexed that, as far as he can tell, his arrow has overshot the
mark. "I might have known she would have caught at the invitation."

"On the twenty-seventh,--the day you mentioned. She must be anxious to
make your acquaintance, as she has not lost an hour," says Marcia, in a
tone that might mean anything. "But"--sweetly--"why distress yourself,
dear, by having her at all? If it disturbs your peace in the very
least, why not write to put her off, at all events until you feel
stronger? Why upset yourself, now you are getting on so nicely?" As she
speaks she lets her clear, calm eyes rest fully upon the hopeless wreck
of what once was strong before her. No faintest tinge of insincerity
mars the perfect kindliness of her tone. "Why not let us three remain
as we are, alone together?"

"What!" cries Mr. Amherst, angrily, and with excitement, raising
himself in his chair, "am I to shut myself up within these four walls
with nothing to interest me from day to day beyond your inane twaddle?
No, I thank you. I will have the house full,--full--do you hear,
Marcia?--and that without delay? Do you want me to die of _ennui_
in this bare barrack of a place?"

"Well, do not make yourself ill, dear," says Marcia, with an admirably
executed sigh. "It shall be as you wish, of course. I only spoke for
your good,--because--I suppose (being the only near relative I have on
earth besides my mother), I--love you."

"You are very good," replies the old man, grimly, utterly untouched by
all this sweetness, "but I will have my own way. And don't you 'dear'
me again. Do you hear, Marcia? I won't have it: it reminds me of my
wife. Pah!"

* * * * *

The days fade, the light wanes, and night's cold dewy mantle falls
thickly on the longing earth.

Marcia, throwing wide h