upon his forehead.
"It was an accident, a misfortune; _you_ did not do it?"

She turned upon him eyes which were full of mingled horror and scorn.

"I _do_ it!" she said; "what are you dreaming of? I was mad; but not so
mad as that! How could you think it?" and the tears rose in her eyes
more at the supposition which his question had raised than at the idea
that he could so misjudge her.

"But why do you keep this? why do you carry it about with you, Blanche?
It is pure insanity on your part. How long is it since you have
travelled in company with that dreadful box?"

"More than two years," she said in a fearful whisper. "I have tried to
get rid of it, but to no purpose; there was always some one in the way.
I have reasoned with myself, and prayed to be delivered from it, but I
have never found an opportunity. And now, what does it matter? The
burden and heat of the day are past."

"Let me do it for you," said Mr. Laurence. "Whatever our future relation
to one another, I cannot consent that you should run so terrible a risk
through fault of mine. The strain upon your mind has been too great
already. Would to heaven I could have borne it for you! but you forbid
me even the privilege of knowing that you suffered. Now that I have
ascertained it, it must be my care that the cause of our separation
shall at least live in your memory only." And as he finished speaking he
attempted to lift the box; but Mrs. Damer sprang forward and prevented
him.

"Leave it!" she cried; "do not dare to touch it; it is _mine_! It has
gone wherever I have gone for years. Do you think, for the little space
that is left me, that I would part with the only link left between me
and my dread past?" and saying this she threw herself upon the black
trunk and burst into tears.

"Blanche! you love me as you ever did," exclaimed Herbert Laurence.
"These tears confess it. Let me make amends to you for this; let me try
to make the happiness of your future life!"

But before his sentence was concluded Mrs. Damer had risen from her
drooping attitude and stood before him.

"Make amends!" she echoed scornfully. "How can you 'make amends'?
Nothing can wipe out the memory of the shame and misery that I have
passed through, nothing restore the quiet conscience I have lost. I do
not know if I love you still or not. When I think of it, my head swims,
and I only feel confused and anxious. But I am sure of one thing, that
the horror of my remorse for even h