Slowly Ida and Arthur Hollis walked together over the beautiful green lawn, Vivian Deane creeping like the shadow of fate after them.

Arthur seated Ida in her favorite nook on the mossy stone. For a moment neither of them spoke; then he suddenly caught her little hand in his. Ida did not know why she trembled, why her hand grew cold in his clasp.

There was not a cloud in the blue sky overhead. The cool, sweet breeze shook the rose leaves and scattered them on the grass; the leaves of the oak-trees stirred on the great boughs. A calm, sweet and solemn in its beauty, stole over them.

"Ida," he whispered, hoarsely, "did ever a great pity fill your heart for any one? If so, let pity fill it now for me, for I am in need of it."

"Why?" she asked, looking wonderingly up at him.

"How I shall look back to this hour when I am gone!" he said, brokenly.

"When I am gone!" The words had a sad murmur in them, like the fall of autumn leaves. They pierced the very heart of the girl who heard them.

"When you are gone?" she repeated. "What do you mean?"

"I am going away within the hour," he said. "The telegram I received calls me back to Baltimore by the first train," he added.

Involuntarily Ida drew closer to him, her face paling. Suddenly the light went out of the sun, the glory faded from the blue sky; the music of the birds was hushed, the bitterness of death seemed to have fallen over her heart.

"Going away?" She repeated the words over and over again, but she could not realize their meaning.

"I—I have been so happy, I forgot you would have to go away," she said, slowly.

"I am going down to Central America. I may die of fever and never come back," he answered, with passionate pain in his voice. "If I am spared to return, it may not be for years. I will have passed out of your thoughts by that time. You will have forgotten the pleasant hours we spent together, forgotten our rambles through the sunny hours. You will have grown into a woman of the world by that time. You have not begun life yet."

"I feel as though I had finished with it," she murmured.

She did not try to check the words that came throbbing to her lips.

"I wish you had not come into my life only to go out of it," she added, with passionate pain.

He looked at her, and strong man though he was, his lips trembled. She had raised her face to his, and she looked so beautiful, so unhappy, that he turned away with a groan which came from the very depths of his heart.

Vivian Deane had crept near enough to hear the first words that had passed between them. She knew that he had received a telegram calling him away. He had either taken Ida Mallard down to the brook-side to say good-bye, or to urge her to elope with him. Most likely the latter.

She would go and fetch Eugene. He should be a silent witness to the scene; then her vengeance would be complete.

She knew his pride, his temper. She knew he would not raise his voice to utter one word to stay her steps. He would spurn her, he would force her to go.

Vivian hurried back to the dancers on the lawn. Eugene Mallard was standing apart from his guests. She glided up to him and laid a little white hand upon his arm.

"Eugene," she said, in a voice which trembled with excitement, "I have always been your true friend. If I saw you in danger, my first impulse would be to save you. If I saw an enemy pointing a deadly arrow at your heart, I would try to turn it aside. If I saw a dark cloud hanging over you, my first impulse would be to warn you."

"I anticipate what you are going to say, Vivian," he broke in, with an expression of annoyance on his face. "You are going to repeat some gossip to me, and I will say, before you begin, that I do not care to hear it."

"If you will not heed the words of warning of one who wishes you well, you must submit to the jeers of the whole country. I advise you to go to the brook-side, where your wife is saying farewell to Arthur Hollis; or perhaps she is going with him."

She saw the look that passed over his face as she turned swiftly and hurried away. He could not have answered her if his life had depended upon it. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw that he had strolled off in the direction which she had indicated.

"He will catch them making love to each other, and then—Ah, well, we shall see!"

Ida and Arthur had walked in silence by the brook, and they stood beside it for some moments without speaking; then suddenly Arthur Hollis turned toward her.

"Say that you will miss me when I am gone," he murmured, with emotion.

"You know that I will," she answered. "But for you, my life here would have been very lonely."

"Do you really mean that?" he asked, quickly.

"Yes," she returned, with something very like a sob on her lips.

Impetuously he caught the little white hand that hung by her side.

"Those words will linger in my memory until the day I die!" he cried, huskily. "Ida, I am going away. You will never see me in this world again. I shall never come back."

She looked at him with her great dark eyes.

"It breaks my heart to say farewell," he continued, huskily, "for when I leave you, Ida, I go out into the darkness of death."

"Oh, do not say that!" she cried.

"Yes, the hour has come when I must tell you," he answered. "It will ease my heart. Only forgive and forget me. Oh, how am I to say good-bye to you?" he asked, sharply, looking, with desperation in his eyes, at the lovely pale face. "I have lived under the same roof with you. I have been thrown into your society day by day, yet I have kept my secret in my own heart. Now I am going away, and I will tell you the truth—I love you, Ida—I love you!"

He caught her hands in his, and she was too bewildered and dazed to withdraw them.

"You must forgive me!" he cried. "Have pity on me, if my words do not please you!"

She was carried away by his reckless impetuosity, and was too much surprised to interrupt him. She had not even recovered herself sufficiently to withdraw her hands from his. All she knew, in her bewilderment, was, that he was kneeling upon the grass at her feet, with his head bent, and that hot, passionate tears were falling from his eyes.

"I have brought you here because I could not bear the pain any longer. I must speak to you or die. I love you! Ah, Heaven knows how I love you!"

She had no power to stop the torrent of words that fell from his lips.

"You will no doubt wonder how I dare say this to you," he went on, brokenly, "but my answer is—love dares anything. It must express itself in action or words. No mortal can keep it back."

She tried to check him, but it was impossible.

"Hush—hush!" was all she could say.

"I know the gulf that lies between us," he went on: "I realize that it can never be bridged over. If I had met you first, I feel all would have ended differently. You would have loved me as I love you. I feel it—I know it."

At that moment Eugene Mallard, who had hurried down the path at the suggestion of Vivian Deane, arrived upon the scene.

Only the tall lilac bushes sheltered him from the two who stood by the brook-side. For a moment he was horrified at what he saw and heard. He stood fairly rooted to the spot. His first impulse was to dash in upon them, fling Arthur Hollis to the earth, and beat his very life out.

His next impulse was to rush to the house for his revolver, return with it, and shoot his false friend before his guilty wife's eyes.

He acted upon the latter impulse, turned on his heel, and a moment later, white as death, he dashed into the house and ran up a rear stair-way to his room.

He did not love the girl who bore his name, but she should learn, even if it were at the cost of a life, what it meant to drag his name, his honor, through the mire.