The races were over, and the rays of the setting sun streamed through the western window of the little dining-room where Walter Sedger's party was seated. The glass and plate glistened in the fading sunlight, and cast many deep shadows on the white table cover, while the faces of the people sitting there were flushed with the first glow of the approaching twilight. The servants moved quietly from place to place, and the merry conversation of Sedger's friends mingled with the soft strains of a Viennese waltz coming through the open hallway door. The thousands who had crowded the course that day had rumbled back over the dusty roads to the city. The huge Grand Stand was silent and deserted, and only the few parties dining at the club remained of the great crowd that had cheered Belle of Newport in her Derby victory. The refreshing cool of the evening seemed to inspire the tired people with new spirits, and the addition to their number of Jack Elliot and his coaching party supplied the zest of variety, while the tales of a clever raconteur produced peals of merry laughter and called forth the utmost efforts of the staid French waiters to preserve their habitual immobility of countenance.

When the dinner was over and the party had removed to the veranda for coffee and cigars, each person there had forgotten, for the moment, all the cares of life, and was lost in the delightful joy of living. Exception must, however, be made of Marion, for, although the society of others usually enabled her to cast aside the depressing influences which often afflicted her, on this occasion she was unusually silent, and had been quite unresponsive to the loquacious efforts exerted by the grain broker on her right to arouse her interest. She now sat a little removed from the rest and gazed moodily out over the deserted race-course, thinking over the events of the past few months, and wondering, in a dazed sort of way, what the outcome would be. The men had gathered together and were discussing sport, while the women talked animatedly about a certain Mrs. Johnson whose actions had lately been disapproved of in certain quarters, so Marion was permitted to follow the current of her fancies undisturbed.

It was just dark enough for the freshly lighted cigars to glow in the fading light. With the setting of the sun had come the silence evening casts over a busy city, and except the occasional croaking of a frog in the Club House lake, or the distant whistle of a locomotive, there was no sound to break the evening quiet. Away over by the long row of red-roofed stables a pair of work-horses were slowly dragging a harrow over the deserted race-course, and they and the laborer trudging behind them were the only evidences of life which Marion could see. The last sun-gleam left the sky, but a fading tinge of light still rested upon the clouds. Marion watched it for a moment,—then it was gone. It seemed to her like a life which fades slowly into oblivion. She often thought of the unseen, and tried, occasionally, to form some life theory which seemed rational. To-night, in the stillness which came after the bustle of the day, she felt singularly alone. She looked up into the impenetrable darkness and to her fancy the world seemed a frightful pit of blackness with a mass of living creatures at the bottom,—writhing in misery and gasping for a breath of happiness. And God? An awful monster at the pit's mouth, baiting the distorted souls with pestilence or dangling hopes before their burning eyes, only to mock their struggles and let them sink down! down! down! Death comes to one sufferer, and then, with a gloating laugh, the monster drops another life into the pit to let it writhe in its awful misery. Marion shuddered at her fancy, and glanced up as if expecting to see the monster's eyes gleaming at the pit's mouth. The thought was horrible, and she covered her eyes with her hands to shut out her distorted imaginations, asking herself if there was no power strong enough to drive away the spirit of gloom which beset her, and make her pulses beat with joy. Deep in her heart she felt there was such a power, but it troubled her to think of it.

"Mrs. Sanderson." She looked up, startled, and saw Duncan by her side. "I thought you might like to walk on the other side of the veranda. It is delightfully cool there."

For a moment she hesitated. "What can be the harm?" she thought. "None," was the answer she gave her question, and then she followed Duncan to the northern side of the veranda where an arm of the building hid them from the others. The moon was rising and her soft light was shed upon the soughing trees, and the stretch of white roadway before them. It was one of those perfect nights of early summer when the vexatious spirits of the day seem lulled to sleep by the mild airs of heaven, and as Marion sat there looking out over the moonlit park, she wondered at the gruesome fancies which had filled her mind but a moment before.

"It is a joy to live on such a night as this," she said, after the moment of silence which followed their coming.

Duncan leaned toward her, and spoke in the deep, soft tones Marion remembered so well. "I feel," he said, "that heaven has sent us this peaceful night to show us that happiness can be a reality."

"It is fortunate that perfect happiness seldom comes," she replied; "the monotony of it would be unendurable."

"Do you think it would be monotonous always to love?" he asked.

"Not if it were possible," she answered after a moment of thought.

"I know it is possible," he said firmly.

"How?" she asked, looking up into his face.

His hand touched hers. "Because, when I look into your eyes, I feel a love which no power on earth could change." She let her hand remain in his, but she turned her face away. "How can I know this love is sincere?" she asked.

"By driving the cruel spirit out of your heart. You may send me away again as you did last winter, but I will come back, for, Marion, I love you, and I must have your love." Instinctively she started to her feet. Duncan was quickly by her side. His arm was about her, and she felt his lips against her cheek.

"I love you, my Marion," he whispered passionately; "you shall not leave me." For a moment she rested her head against his breast and felt the embrace of his strong arms.

"If it were not a sin, Duncan," she said, looking up into his eyes, "I might love you."

"No love like ours can be a sin. It is heaven sent."

"If it only were," she sighed; then he drew her closer to him.

"It is, dearest," he said. "If you will listen to me, you will believe it, too."

"I must not listen to you, Duncan."

"Must I go away?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then I was foolish to fancy I could read love in your eyes."

"Don't torture me."

"I, torture? It is you who send me from you."

"I know it, but think of the danger we are in. Leave me to-night, Duncan. To-morrow Florence will be with Mr. Wainwright's aunt, and Roswell goes to St. Louis. Dine with me at eight, perhaps I can tell you then, but not to-night. I must have time to think."

"I will go now," he said, "but I will come to you to-morrow." He kissed her.

"God help me," she sighed.

Duncan quietly released her and they walked silently back toward the place where they had left the others. At the corner of the building they met Sedger. It was too dark for him to notice that Marion was agitated, and any possible suspicions were averted by Duncan's saying quietly, "Here we are. We had just started to join you. Is the drag ready?"

"Yes. I have been collecting the party. You are the last to be found. It's a capital night for a drive and I intend to take you back through Jackson Park."

"Splendid," said Marion. "I adore driving in the moonlight."

The party had left the veranda, and Marion and her companions walked to where they were waiting. They were obliged to descend the stairs to the hallway below, and by the time they reached the rendezvous she felt perfectly calm and collected. They were compelled to wait a moment for a missing wrap. Marion stood next to Duncan, and a wild sense of pleasure was in her heart. The fear had gone, and her love made her defiant. She felt that she might give him his answer then.

The missing wrap was found, and the party moved toward the door. As they passed out they could see the dark outlines of the drag looming up in the moonlight. The great coach lamps cast a flickering light upon the roadway and the horses champed impatiently at the bits. Sedger mounted to the box and this time Mrs. Smith had the seat beside him. A couple of Sedger's friends had been picked up at the club, so Marion said she would take the back seat. Duncan joined her there, and she was astonished to find her husband next her also.

The drag rolled away from the Club House, and swayed and rocked as Sedger let the horses gallop through the gates and along the little stretch of road leading to the park. The evening breeze blew softly against the faces of the party, and the coach rumbled along past the park lake, with the moonlight glistening on its surface, and the slender trees standing out grim and shadowy like huge phantoms guarding its banks. Then the team settled down to a steady pace, and through the dim light the leaders could just be seen huddling together, with their ears pricked up for every sound. Horses seem to travel best at night, and the steady creaking of the harness, harmonizing with the rattle of the bars and the lively clatter of hoofs on the hard ground, came like sweet music through the night air. A leader shied at a shadow; the coach swayed for a moment, and the party crowded closer together. Some one started a college song; the refrain was caught up by the rest, and the chorus swelled forth a familiar glee. Along the tree-lined avenues or through winding roadways the great coach rolled. Now the leaders plunged into the dark shadows of the woods, or trotted merrily past some open meadow, while from the long coach-horn the notes of "Who'll buy a broom," sounded sharp and clear on the night air:

Then, for a while, they sped along the shores of the great lake, and mingling with the rumbling of wheels came the splash of the waves upon the sandy shore.

The songs grew less frequent, the laughter ceased, and the party gradually lapsed into silence. A reckless daring, such as she had never known before, possessed Marion. In her imagination she seemed to be rolling on toward some dazzling goal, and she laughed at the thought of danger. The moon passed under a cloud and she felt the strong grasp of Duncan's hand about her own. She looked toward her husband and there was a cold, stony feeling in her heart. She was glad to feel that she had the courage to break from the trammels of convention which had so long bound her, and she felt a delightful sense of freedom which told her that at last the depths of her nature had been fathomed, and that the love lying there had burst forth in all its strength.

The coach left the park and rolled into the sleeping city. Down the long avenue it went, past rows of darkened houses. The cool breezes of the lake seemed warmed by the heated pavements, and the freedom of the country was lost in the narrow lines of streetway. Marion sat watching the two converging rows of flickering street lamps stretching away as far as she could see, and down the street before her she saw the lamps of Jack Elliot's coach gleaming in the darkness. She remained lost in thought, and did not speak again until the brake rattled and the drag suddenly stopped.

Late that night Duncan sat in his room at the City Club. He was partly undressed and his clothes lay scattered about in heedless confusion. In his hand he held a glass of whiskey and soda, and between the occasional sips he passed over in his mind the events of the day. He thought also of the experiences of his life, and the women he had known came into his mind; women who had trusted and loved him while they formed the idle amusement of his hours; women who had felt his power for a while, only to see him turn away for some later fancy. He smiled as he thought of the words of love he had spoken to confiding hearts, but the smile brought a tinge of remorse for the harm he had done. He thought of Marion in a different light then, and a feeling of pity came into his heart which prompted him to curb his selfish nature and act in a generous way; but the echo of a cruel laugh came to him, and in fancy he saw two mocking black eyes gleaming before him. "A man's a fool," he said aloud, "not to take what fortune sends him."