That ride—all her life it came back to her like a bad nightmare. She kept her eyes turned away as much as she could from that rigid form and ghastly face opposite, but in spite of herself they would wander back. What Miss Catheron had said was true then—he was dying—death was pictured in his face. What if, after all, there was some secret strong enough to make his conduct in leaving her right? She had thought it over and wondered and wondered, until her brain was dazed, but could never hit on any solution. She could not now—it was not right. Whatever the secret was, he had known it before he married her—why had he not left her then—why in leaving her after had he not explained? There was no excuse for him, none, and in spite of the white, worn face that pleaded for him, her heart hardened once more—hardened until she felt neither pity nor pain.

They reached the hotel. Jamison, the valet, came down, and recoiled at sight of his master's long lost wife.

"My lady!" he faltered, staring as though he had seen a ghost.

"Your master has met with an accident, Jamison," Edith said calmly, ignoring the title. How oddly it sounded to her. "You had better have him conveyed to his room and send for a surgeon. And, if Lady Helena is in town—"

"Lady Helena is in town, my lady. Will—" Jamison hesitated, "will you not come in, my lady, and wait until her ladyship comes?"

Again for a moment Edith hesitated and thought. It would be necessary for some one to explain—she could not go away either without knowing whether the injury he had received were fatal or not, since that injury was received in her service. She set her lips and alighted.

"I will remain until Lady Helena arrives. Pray lose no time in sending for her."

"I will send immediately, my lady," answered Jamison respectfully.
"Thompson," to a waiter, "show this lady to a parlor at once."

And then Edith found herself following a gentlemanly sort of man in black, down a long hall, up a great staircase, along a carpeted corridor, and into an elegant private parlor. The man lit the gas and went, and then she was alone.

She sat down to think. What a strange adventure it had been. She had wished for her freedom—it seemed as though it were near at hand. She shuddered and shrank from herself.

"What a wretch I am," she thought; "what a vile creature I must be. If he dies, I shall feel as though I murdered him."

How long the hours and half hours, told off on the clock, seemed—eight, nine, ten,—would Lady Helena never come? It was a long way to St. John's Wood, but she might surely be here by this time. It was half past ten, and tired out thinking, tired out with her day's work, she had fallen into a sort of uneasy sleep and fitful dream in her chair when she suddenly became half conscious of some one near her. She had been dreaming of Sandypoint, of quarrelling with her cousin. "Don't Charley!" she said petulantly, aloud, and the sound of her own voice awoke her fully. She started up, bewildered for a second, and found herself face to face with Lady Helena. With Lady Helena, looking very pale and sorrowful, with tear-wet eyes and cheeks.

She had been watching Edith for the past five minutes silently and sadly. The girl's dream was pleasant, a half smile parted her lips. Then she had moved restlessly. "Don't Charley?" she said distinctly and awoke.

It was of him then she was dreaming—thoughts of him had brought to her lips that happy smile. The heart of the elder woman contracted with a sharp sense of pain.

"Lady Helena!"

"Edith!"

She took the girl's hand in both her own and looked kindly at her. She had liked her very much in the days gone by, though she had never wished her nephew to marry her. And she could hardly blame her very greatly under the circumstances, if her dreams were of the man she loved, not of the bridegroom who had left her.

"I—I think I fell asleep," Edith said confusedly; "I was very tired, and it all seemed so quiet and tedious here. How is he?"

"Better and asleep—they gave him an opiate. He knows nothing of your being here. It was very good of you to come, my child."

"It was nothing more than a duty of common humanity. It was impossible to avoid coming," Edith answered, and then briefly and rather coldly she narrated how the accident had taken place.

"My poor boy!" was all Lady Helena said, but there was a heart sob in every word; "he would die gladly to save you a moment's pain, and yet it has been his bitter lot to inflict the worst pain of your life. My poor child, you can't understand, and we can't explain—it must seem very hard and incomprehensible to you, but one day you will know all, and you will do him justice at last. Ah, Edith! if you had not refused Inez—if only you were not so proud, if you would take what is your right and your due, he might bear this separation until Heaven's good time. As it is, it is killing him."

"He looks very ill," Edith said; "what is the matter with him?"

"Heart disease—brought on by mental suffering. No words can tell what he has undergone since his most miserable wedding-day. It is known only to Heaven and himself but it has taken his life. As surely as ever human heart broke, his broke on the day he left you. And you, my poor child—you have suffered too."

"Of that we will not speak," the girl answered proudly; "what is done, is done. For me, I hope the worst is over—I am safe and well, and in good health as you see. I am glad Sir Victor Catheron has not met his death in my service. I have only one wish regarding him, and that is that he will keep away from me. And now, Lady Helena, before it grows any later, I will go home."

"Go home! At this hour? Most certainly you will not. You will remain here all night. Oh, Edith, you must indeed. A room has been prepared for you, adjoining mine. Inez and Jamison will remain with Victor until morning, and—you ought to see him before you go."

She shrank in a sort of horror.

"No, no, no! that I cannot! As it is so late I will remain, but see him—no, no! Not even for your sake, Lady Helena, can I do that."

"We will wait until to-morrow comes," was Lady Helena's response; "now you shall go to your room at once."

She rang the bell, a chambermaid came. Lady Helena kissed the girl's pale cheek affectionately, and Edith was led away to the room she was to occupy for that night.

It was certainly a contrast in its size and luxurious appointments to that she had used for the last ten months. She smiled a little as she glanced around. And she was to spend the night under the same roof with Sir Victor Catheron. If anyone had predicted it this morning, how scornfully she would have refused to believe.

"Who can tell what a day may bring forth!" was Edith's last thought as she laid her head on her pillow. "I am glad—very glad, that the accident will not prove fatal. I don't want him or anyone else to come to his death through me."

She slept well and soundly, and awoke late. She sprang out of bed almost instantly and dressed. She could but ill afford to lose a day. Before her toilet was quite completed there was a tap at the door. She opened it and saw Miss Catheron.

"I fancied you would be up early, and ordered breakfast accordingly.
Aunt Helena awaits you down stairs. How did you sleep?"

"Very well. And you—you were up all night I suppose?"

"Yes. I don't mind it at all, though—I am quite used to night watching. And I have the reward of knowing Victor is much better—entirely out of danger indeed. Edith," she laid her hands on the girl's shoulders and looked down into her eyes, "he knows you are here. Will you be merciful to a dying man and see him?"

She changed color and shrank a little, but she answered proudly and coldly:

"No good can come of it. It will be much better not, but for my own part I care little. If he wishes to urge what you came to urge, I warn you, I will not listen to a word; I will leave at once."

"He will not urge it. He knows how obdurate you are, how fruitless it would be. Ah, Edith! you are a terribly haughty, self-willed girl. He will not detain you a moment—he wishes to make but one parting request."

"I can grant nothing—nothing," Edith said with agitation.

"You will grant this, I think," the other answered sadly. "Come, dear child, let us go down; Lady Helena waits."

They descended to breakfast; Edith ate little. In spite of herself, in spite of her pride and self command, it shook her a little—the thought of speaking to him.

But how was she to refuse? She rose at last, very pale, very stern and resolute looking—the sooner it was over and she was gone, the better.

"Now," she said, "if you insist—"

"I do insist," answered Inez steadily. "Come."

She led her to a door down the corridor and rapped. How horribly thick and fast Edith's heart beat; she hated herself for it. The door opened, and the grave, professional face of Mr. Jamison looked out.

"Tell Sir Victor, Lady Catheron is here, and will see him."

The man bowed and departed. Another instant and he was again before them:

"Sir Victor begs my lady to enter at once."

Then Inez Catheron took her in her arms and kissed her. It was her farewell. She pointed forward and hurried away.

Edith went on. A door and curtain separated her from the inner room. She opened one, lifted the other, and husband and wife were face to face.

He lay upon a low sofa—the room was partially darkened, but even in that semi-darkness she could see that he looked quite as ghastly and bloodless this morning as he had last night.

She paused about half way down the room and spoke: "You wished to see me, Sir Victor Catheron?"

Cold and calm the formal words fell.

"Edith!"

His answer was a cry—a cry wrung from a soul full of love and anguish untold. It struck home, even to her heart, steeled against him and all feeling of pity.

"I am sorry to see you so ill. I am glad your accident is no worse." Again she spoke, stiff, formal, commonplace words, that sounded horribly out of place, even to herself.

"Edith," he repeated, and again no words can tell the pathos, the despair of that cry, "forgive me—have pity on me. You hate me, and I deserve your hate, but oh! if you knew, even you would have mercy and relent!"

He touched her in spite of herself. Even a heart of stone might have softened at the sound of that despairing, heart-wrung voice—at sight of that death-like, tortured face. And Edith's, whatever she might say or think, was not a heart of stone.

"I do pity you," she said very gently; "I never thought to—but from my soul I do. But, forgive you! No, Sir Victor Catheron; I am only mortal. I have been wronged and humiliated as no girl was ever wronged and humiliated before. I can't do that."

He covered his face with his hands—she could hear the dry sobbing sound of his wordless misery.

"It would have been better if I had not come here," she said still gently. "You are ill, and this excitement will make you worse. But they insisted upon it—they said you had a request to make. I think you had better not make it—I can grant nothing—nothing."

"You will grant this," he answered, lifting his face and using the words Inez had used; "it is only that when I am dying, and send for you on my death-bed, you will come to me. Before I die I must tell you all—the terrible secret; I dare not tell you in life; and then, oh surely, surely you will pity and forgive! Edith, my love, my darling, leave me this one hope, give me this one promise before you go?"

"I promise to come," was her answer; "I promise to listen—I can promise no more. A week ago I thought I would have died sooner than pledge myself to that much—sooner than look in your face, or speak to you one word. And now, Sir Victor Catheron, farewell."

She turned to go without waiting for his reply. As she opened the door, she heard a wailing cry that struck chill with pity and terror to her inmost heart.

"Oh, my love! my bride! my wife!"—then the door closed behind her—she heard and saw no more.

So they had met and parted, and only death could bring them together again.

She passed out into the sunshine and splendor of the summer morning, dazed and cold, her whole soul full of untold compassion for the man she had left.