In less time than it takes to tell it, the strained relationship between Eugene Mallard and his bride was whispered through the household. They had laughed at old Black Joe when he had whispered the story of their silence from the railroad station, declaring he was romancing. Later events certainly gave color to the story, however. She was all that was sweet and fair. What could be the trouble?

"If there was ever a bride most wretchedly unhappy, she is that one," said Mrs. Rice, shaking her head.

"Why did he marry her if he did not love her? I can not understand it, I am sure."

Mrs. Rice went to the bride's room the next morning to awaken her. She found her already up and sitting by the window, and there was no indication that she had removed her dress. This was reduced to a certainty when she went into the adjoining apartment and found the couch just as it had been the previous evening.

She went back to where young Mrs. Mallard was sitting, and laid her hand gently upon the girl's arm.

"I hope you will be happy with us here, my dear," she said in her sweet, gentle old voice, "for we will do everything to serve you. I have been here for many years and have witnessed the home-coming of many of the brides of the Mallards. There was never one that I took to more than I did to you, my dear child. I felt like taking you in my arms and pressing you to my heart. But you seem lonely. Tell me, is there anything I can do for you?"

Ida lifted her face.

"You are very, very kind," she said, gratefully, "and I thank you with all my heart."

She looked as if she were about to add something, but quickly checked herself.

"Perhaps you would like to see the grounds, my dear," said Mrs. Rice. "Will you come out into the garden?"

The young woman acquiesced readily enough.

"Your trunks have not come yet, my dear," said Mrs. Rice, as they walked along. "The railway service in this part of the country is abominable. It looks strange to have you come down to breakfast in your traveling-dress, but—"

"I have no trunks coming. This is the only dress I have to wear at present," returned the girl, quietly.

It was as much as the old housekeeper could do to restrain herself from an exclamation of astonishment at this announcement.

What could it mean? Why had Eugene Mallard's bride no trousseau, as he had been preparing for this event for months, as eager in his anticipation of it as a school-boy for a holiday! She could not understand it; she felt mystified. But with the quick wit habitual to her, Mrs. Rice replied almost instantly:

"A wardrobe can be easily supplied by our Virginia modistes. Indeed, they are world-famous, I may add. They make dresses for many of the ladies of Washington on the shortest notice. Mr. Mallard pressed a roll of bills into my hand when he arrived, and said: 'See that my wife has everything needful, Mrs. Rice.' I could not think what he meant at the time. Now I see it was your wardrobe he referred to. You and I will set about getting the things at once. Or if it will fatigue you too much after your journey, you leave it to me, and I will see that you have a complete wardrobe in a short time. You must not say no, my dear; for remember, it is your husband's wish, and you surely wish to please him."

The girl looked at her with the strangest expression in her dark eyes.

"Nothing that I could do would please him," she said, hopelessly.

Mrs. Rice did not tell that remark to the servants, or there would have been no end of gossip among them.

"There is some great mystery between Eugene Mallard and his bride," she said to herself. "I will not attempt to probe into the mystery, but I will endeavor to bring them together, if it lies within human power."

The fortnight that followed, the old mansion was fairly alive with guests coming and going.

Eugene Mallard could not help but admire Ida for bearing up so bravely under the terrible ordeal. During that fortnight a strange thing happened—the cruelest blow that Heaven could have dealt Ida. The lovely girl had learned to love Eugene Mallard with all the strength of her nature. She was in love with him, and he was cold and indifferent.

Another fortnight passed, and yet another. Everything at the great mansion passed pleasantly enough to the outside world. But the young girls for miles around who envied the young bride never dreamed of the skeleton that existed in that magnificent mansion.

Eugene Mallard was all that was kind and considerate. It seemed a necessity to him to have the house full of company. He was never alone with Ida. How gayly he talked to his guests! Looking at him, Ida said to herself:

"If he would but smile so when he speaks to me! His eyes are always cold; no warmth or brightness ever comes into them for me."

Although Eugene Mallard appeared so bright and gay before his guests; yet, unknown to any one, his heart was filled with the bitterness of death. It did not seem possible for him to live through the hours day after day. He felt thankful to Heaven that no one guessed that he had brought home a different bride from what he had intended. He dashed recklessly from one gayety to another, his object being to try to forget Hildegarde, his love. He never voluntarily looked at the girl he had married.

At the end of six weeks most of the guests returned to their homes, and Eugene Mallard suddenly found himself alone with his young wife and the servants.

"I must not let this happen again," he said. "To live here alone requires more strength than I am possessed of."

They breakfasted alone in the great oak dining-room, and each felt the restraint which they could illy conceal.

As she took her place at the table she was perfectly calm and self-possessed, but the mask of smiles she had worn before his guests fell from her face. She did not attempt any conversation with him, but with a quick, flashing smile she answered when she was spoken to.

"It seems to take the servants exceptionally long to serve breakfast," he said, impatiently; adding: "Will you permit me to glance over the morning paper? I am interested in this column on stocks."

She bowed her head gracefully, and watched him, as he read in silence. There came over her face an air of sadness painful to see in one so young.

To Ida the departure of the company was a great relief. Indeed, she longed for solitude, and thought that if they did not go soon she could not keep up much longer.

She had wanted to go away long ago; but she had remained there, and now the attraction was so great that she would not break away even if she could. Her love for her husband was like a magnet, strong as her very life-blood, a part of every heart-beat.

For long hours she would muse over her strange position.

It was an uncommon fate—young, with life all before her, she longed for its blessings. It was pitiful for her to know that the man she had learned to love cared for another, that she was no more to her husband than she would be to a brother.

How sad it was that she should long for the love of her husband as she had never longed for anything else in life! It seemed so strange to live in that magnificent home, to have everything that her heart desired, to be wealthy, honored, and envied, yet to have no husband's love.

Did he still sigh for Hildegarde? Was he thinking of her when that dreamy look came into his eyes? She would give the world to know. She felt a terrible jealousy in her heart.

"Will he never change?" she asked herself, in despair. "Living under the same roof with me, seeing me day after day, will his heart never warm ever so little toward me?"

Once more the old resolve, to steal away from the house, came to her. Should she go to him, kneel at his feet, and sob out:

"I can not remain in this house any longer, because I—I—have learned to love you!"

She could picture the surprise on his face. Perhaps there would be anger, scorn. The eagle dared to look at the sun, the worm dared to creep into the tender heart of the rose. Was it strange that she had dared to love him?

Hers was a dreary fate, and she tried to bear it bravely. If she had only some one to confide in, some one to talk to! Was his heart dead because of his bitter disappointment?