When Armstrong enters the drawing-room, half an hour later, there is small evidence of any volcanic element in the cheerful family group that meets his glance.

Pauline is lying in an easy-chair reading a novel, Addie and Lottie are engaged with bÉsique, the Widow Malone purring on the latter's lap.

"How late you are!" is Pauline's languid greeting. "We waited dinner fifteen minutes."

"I was detained at the office," he answers, throwing himself into a chair which commands a good view of the players, full face, three-quarters, and profile.

"Yes," he thinks after a few minutes' scrutiny, after intercepting a frightened, questioning, furtive glance—"yes, I think I am to be told of Jamie and his unexpected return from sea; she is evidently mustering courage to unburden her conscience. I wonder how long will she be getting up sufficient steam? I must give her a helping hand."

"What is it? You want to speak to me?" he says, as gently as he can, meeting a second imploring look, as they both stand at the foot of the stairs, when the party in the drawing-room has broken up for the night.

But she shrinks back in evident dismay.

"No, no! What—what made you think that? I—I don't want to say anything in particular, only, 'Good-night.'"

"I beg your pardon. Good-night."

Two days go by, and no confession comes; the third brings Robert on a hurried visit from Aldershot to consult his brother-in-law, about some hitch in his qualification for the cavalry.

At dinner Armstrong learns what he wants to know—the identity of his wife's lover.

"I say, girls," blurts out Robert, suddenly, "you'd never guess whom I met at Kelvick station this morning, not if I gave you twenty chances."

"We'll not try," retorts Pauline. "The weather is too hot for conundrums. Who was it, Robert?"

"Teddy Lefroy."

"No! You don't mean it! How was he looking? Did you know him at once? When is he coming to see us?" exclaim the two younger girls together.

Addie says not a word.

"Looking? Well, not A 1, I must say. I'm greatly afraid poor Ted is going down the tree, at a smart pace too. I scarcely knew him at first, he had so run to seed both in looks and clothing. You remember what a dapper fellow he was four years ago."

"Poor Ted—I am sorry! He was too nice to last, I always thought," said Pauline, lightly. "Where is he now—with his regiment?"

"No; he has left his regiment, I regret to say, and is now thrown on society without resource or occupation. Punchestown finished him up, and the Beechers won't have anything more to say to him. He talks of going to the Colonies."

"Well, I hope he'll come to see us before he leaves this neighborhood. Did you ask him to, Bob?"

"I did, of course; but somehow he seemed strangely disinclined to come—gave a lot of patched-up excuses; however, he said he'd do his best. You'll find him greatly altered."

"Addie," says Lottie, joining in the conversation for the first time, "I'm sure it's on account of you he won't come—because you're married, you know."

There is a brief silence, broken by Addie asking confusedly, her cheeks flushing—

"What do you mean, Lottie? Why should my marriage prevent Teddy from coming here?"

"Oh, well, you know what I mean!" replies Lottie, giggling foolishly. "You may open your eyes as wide as you like, Addie; but you know perfectly well what I mean—you know that Teddy and you were awful spoons long ago. Don't you remember the night Hal and I hid up in the cherry-tree and saw you and him walking up and down the orchard with his arm round your waist, and how angry and red you got when Hal gave a big crow and called out, 'I see you—yah!' Don't you remember? And the photo we found in your desk wrapped up in—"

Here, with a suppressed cry, Lottie stops, the toe of Robert's boot having just met a tender part of her shin.

Armstrong rises to open the door for his wife, who passes out with flaming cheeks and downcast head, then resumes his seat by his brother-in-law's side, and they sit together smoking and talking business far into the night.

Four days more go by, and the week of grace is nearly spent, when one evening a knock comes at Armstrong's study-door, and his wife enters, pale and wild-looking, her hair blown about, and the skirt of her dress wet, as if she has just been trailing it through damp grass.

"She has had another interview with Jamie, and now for the upshot!" he thinks grimly. "I must try to tune my nerves for hysterics, I suppose. My wife's emotions are always dished up hot."

"You wish to speak to me?" he asks gravely. "Won't you sit down?"

"I want to know if you can give me five hundred pounds," she says, in a clear mechanical voice, as if she were repeating a lesson.

"Five hundred pounds?" he echoes blankly.

"Yes, five hundred pounds, can you give it to me to-night? That is all I want to say to you."

"I can give you a check for that amount, which you can cash, in any of the banks in Kelvick to-morrow. Will that do?"

"Yes, that will do."

He fills in the check, signs it, and hands it to her without a word.

"Thank you," she says, huskily. "It is a big sum. I—I may be able to repay it; but I don't know when."

"Pray don't mention it. I consider the money well laid out," he says shortly.

"I understand you—oh, I understand you! The money has bought you your freedom—that is what you mean," she says, fixing her wild eyes on his face. "Any lingering spark of—of affection, of esteem, of pity you still had for me is gone now. Yes? I thought so—I thought so; but I could not help it; the pressure brought to bear on me was too strong. I could not help it! Oh, if you knew—if I could only tell you—"

"Pray don't offer any explanation. I assure you I seek none. I am quite satisfied that you wanted the money badly, or you would not have applied to me."

He busies himself stamping some letters for the post; while she stands by staring at him helplessly, the check lying under her nerveless hand.

He looks up at her after a moment, a grim elation flooding his soul—looks at her standing mute in her utter abasement before him, cowering, shrinking, a thing too mean for pity, too despicable for wrath.

"And to think that I wasted the best wealth of my life on such a woman as she," he mutters, turning away in burning self-contempt—"to think that I lay awake at night thirsting for her love, treasuring her every wanton smile, gloating over every kind word she gave me—to think that in this very room scarce ten days ago, she almost tricked me into believing in her again, a woman who could stoop to sponge on me, her much-enduring husband, to sponge for the lover who comes cringing round my gates, his craven hand outstretched to rob me of my substance as well as my honor! They are a noble race, these Lefroys! It was a lift in the world for me, Tom Armstrong, the foundling, to take one of them to my bosom! Faugh!"

"What do you want? Can I do anything more for you?" he says, sternly, turning round, to find her standing by his side.

"No, nothing—nothing," she pants, dry-eyed. "I only want you to say something to me—it does not matter what—to abuse me and mine, to give voice to your contempt, to tell me what you feel."

"What good would it do you or me?" he asks roughly. "You can guess pretty well what I feel; my emotions are not very complex at this moment, I can tell you."

She wrings her hands, and tries to speak; but only a gurgling sound comes. He looks on, smiling lightly.

"Oh, if it could only turn out a dream—all a dream!" she whispers hoarsely. "If this year could be blotted out, and you could find yourself coming home one May evening, and see me lying in the wood, you would drive on and leave me there, would you not, Tom?"

"No," he says, after a short pause. "On consideration, I think I should stop and send you home to your aunt in my trap."

"You would not bring me here?"

"Certainly not—that is, presuming the panorama of this happy year had been foreshadowed to me in sleep. And you—you surely would not have me do so, eh? Your present feelings tally with mine, do they not?"

"My present feelings! Will you let me tell you what they are? If—if I had this year to spend over again, if we had, as we so futilely presume, lived through it in a painful sleep, its every pang, its every troubled experience—"

"Yes, I follow you."

"And you were to bring me here and ask me to be your wife again, my answer would be 'Yes.' I would marry you, Tom, if you had not a penny in the world to tempt me with—marry you if I knew you to be a vagrant, a homeless vagrant, as they say you once were, wandering through the streets of Kelvick, and that I had to share a garret with you until the day I died! You don't believe me—ah, you don't believe me?"

She approaches, and lays a shaking hand on his arm. He turns with a fierce oath, his face blazing with scorn, repulsion, contempt unutterable, and, hurling her from him, strides from the room.

"Believe you? Believe you? By Heaven, I don't!" are his hot parting words.

Her head strikes rather sharply against the woodwork of the window; she remains for a few moments with eyes closed, struggling against nausea, then lifts her handkerchief to her mouth, from which a thin red stream is issuing slowly.