Vivian Deane looked down at the cowering girl at her feet. It seemed to her then that her triumph was complete. She could scarcely keep back the cry of exultation that rose to her lips.

"How shall I leave the house without being seen?" whispered Ida, piteously.

"Leave that to me," murmured Vivian. "I am very sorry for you, Ida, and I will do all I can to aid you in this, your hour of greatest sorrow."

"You are, indeed, a true friend to me," sobbed Ida. "I shall never, never forget your kindness."

Vivian looked a trifle uncomfortable at these words of unmerited praise. She dared not remain longer with Ida, for she knew that two or three partners would be looking for her.

"Stay here for at least fifteen minutes," she said, eagerly, "and by that time I will join you, and tell you what plans I have made for you."

Ida could not think for herself, her brain was so benumbed. She could only nod in silence.

Scarcely five minutes had elapsed since Vivian had quitted the boudoir, until Eugene Mallard again knocked for admittance at the door.

There was no answer. He turned the knob, entered, and found his young wife lying senseless upon the carpet. For the second time, Ida had given away to the awful agony that consumed her. Among those at the fÊte was a young doctor. Eugene summoned him hastily.

"Dear me, this is quite serious!" exclaimed the doctor, as he bent over the prostrate form which Eugene had borne to a couch. "Your wife has brain fever. It is a serious case, I fear."

The garden-party broke up quite suddenly. The news that Mrs. Mallard had been taken ill was rumored among the revelers, and silently but quickly the guests took their departure, all save Vivian Deane.

She went up to Eugene, and laid a hand on his arm.

"Let me remain and nurse my dear friend Ida," she pleaded. "Do not refuse, I beg of you!"

"Let it be as the doctor says," answered Eugene.

But the physician shook his head decisively.

"This is a case requiring the most competent nurses. I am sorry to refuse you, Miss Deane, but in this instance I must do so."

Vivian controlled the anger that leaped into her heart.

"You certainly mean well," added the doctor, "but in such a case as this even her nearest relatives are not to be allowed in the sick-room."

Vivian was obliged to swallow her chagrin as best she could. If she had been allowed her way, the young wife who had come between her love and herself would never rise from her bed.

"When she is convalescing I will visit her," she said to herself.

As she had no excuse to remain longer in the house, she was obliged to take her departure along with the other guests.

When Eugene Mallard had hurried to his room, after bidding Ida to remain there until his return, it was his intention to go to his room for writing materials, and returning to Ida, force from her a written confession of her love for his friend, and her intention to elope with him.

Under the circumstances, he could not very well carry his plan into execution. His rage against his hapless young wife turned to pity when he saw her lying there so helplessly before him.

During the fortnight that followed, the servants, who knew of their master's estrangement from his young wife, and how little he cared for her, were greatly surprised to find themselves banished from the sick-room, while Eugene Mallard took possession of it.

The fact was, he was puzzled at her raving. Sometimes, when taking the place of the trained nurse for an hour, he was troubled beyond expression to hear her go over again and again the scene that had taken place by the brook.

In her delirium, Ida vehemently repulsed Arthur Hollis, demanding of him how it was that he dared speak a word of love to her, the wife of another.

Then the scene would change, and she would fancy herself once more in her own room, falling on her knees and crying out to Heaven that she could not bear her husband's coldness.

Often would Eugene listen intently while Ida clasped her hands and moaned:

"Oh, Eugene! Eugene! will I ever be more to you than I am now? I love you! Yes, I love you, but you will never know it! If you only knew it, you would be surprised. A wife never loved a husband more dearly, more devotedly than I love you. I would have devoted my whole life to you. I would have died for you! Every beat of my heart, every thought of my mind, every action of my life is for you! I love you as no one else ever will, as no one has loved you! You may live many years, happy, flattered by the women of the world, but no love like mine will ever come to you. The wife who is to you as the dirt beneath your feet is the truest friend you have!"

Eugene Mallard looked terribly distressed as he listened.

"Ida, my dear wife, listen to me," he would say. "I—I—shall try very hard to be kinder to you than I have been. Do you hear me, do you understand?"

There was no gleam of love in the pale face; no light such as he had thought his words would bring there; no gleam of joy. She did not seem to understand him. He said to himself that he must be cautious; that he must not distress her by speaking words that would give her hope.

The news of the illness of Eugene Mallard's young wife had traversed far beyond the small Virginia town. He was well known in New York, and the papers of the metropolis copied the bit of news; but in doing so, they made a great mistake. The items read that the young wife of Eugene Mallard had died from the effects of brain fever.

Miss Fernly read the article, and without delay she wrote to Eugene Mallard.

In one part of her letter she said:

"I should never have written you the following if the wife whom you had wedded through my mistake had lived. But now that she is gone, I will tell you the truth—that hapless deed came very near costing your poor Hildegarde her life. From the time of your marriage to the present, she has never been the same. She loved you then, she still loves you.

"This is what I would advise you to do: wait a reasonable length of time, and then come and claim Hildegarde, and this time nothing shall happen to prevent the marriage of you two whom Heaven had intended for each other. I know Hildegarde is breaking her heart day by day, hour by hour, for love of you.

"I urge you to come to her just as soon as you think it prudent, as I think it is my duty to warn you that Hildegarde is fading away before our very eyes, and your presence is the only thing that can save her life.

"I here inclose you a small portrait of her I had taken only a little while ago. Her face is as sweet as a flower, but, ah, me! one can not help but read the sadness in every line of it."

It was just at the time when Eugene Mallard was feeling kinder toward his wife than ever that he received Miss Fernly's letter inclosing Hildegarde's picture. He had done his best to try to crush out his hopeless love for one from whom Heaven had so strangely parted him.

Great drops of perspiration stood out on his brow as he folded the letter and turned the picture face downward on his desk.

It seemed to Eugene that the bitter waves of death were sweeping over him. It was the reopening of the old wound in his heart that he prayed Heaven to heal. He loved Hildegarde with all the strength of his manhood. He wished that he were dead. The pain seemed greater than he could bear. He found that he still loved sweet Hildegarde; but he was bound to another in honor and conscience. He would try to do his duty toward the one who bore his name.

He took the letter to the open fire-place, where a log fire burned lazily, and knelt down before it, holding it to the flame. Red tongues of fire caught at it gleefully, and the next instant it was a heap of ashes in one corner of the grate.

Then he held out the picture to the flames, but involuntarily he drew it back. He could not allow it to burn. It seemed to him that his own heart would burn first.

"Heaven give me strength to destroy it!" he cried. "I dare not trust myself to keep it. It will drive me mad!"