Elizabeth at last paused, and in her bitter anguish stood for minutes regarding Elsie as she lay asleep upon the sofa. She approached and bent over her. The girl had brushed her long fair curls back from her face, and they fell over the cushions in rich luxuriance, a feverish color was on her cheeks, lighting up her loveliness, and her whole appearance was so pretty, so singularly childlike, as she lay there, that it seemed impossible, even then, that she could have anything in common with the trouble that oppressed Elizabeth.

Elizabeth stood for a long time regarding her, and many changes passed over her face as she did so, but they all settled into a look of determination, and she turned away. Whatever was to be borne she would endure alone; she would keep her promise to the very letter. If ruin and disgrace came they should fall on her alone. Why attempt to involve that fair young creature in it?

She went to a cabinet in the corner of the room, opened a little drawer and took out a package of letters. They were those her husband had written to her during his long absence.

She drew an easy-chair near to the sofa and sat down, with her face turned towards Elsie, opened one or two of the epistles and read passages from them. One of the pages ran thus:

"Whatever may happen, no matter how long my absence may be protracted, I know that you will take care of Elsie. If the worst should happen—if death should surprise me in this far-off land, I know that you will fulfil for me the promise I made my dying mother, and be a parent to that desolate girl.

"Forgive me if I pain you by writing so sadly. I do not believe that any misfortune will happen to me; something tells me that I shall reach home in safety, and find love and happiness once more awaiting me there.

"But the charge I have in Elsie's future is always present to my mind. I never can forget the words that my dying mother spoke; they are with me night and day, and have been since the hour when they died on her pallid lips.

"It rejoices my heart to think how different from most girls our little Elsie is. If any harm were to reach her I think I should go mad; disgrace to one whose blood was kindred to that in my veins would kill me. You may think this pride a weakness, but it is too deeply rooted in my nature ever to be eradicated. When I look about the world and see girls disgracing themselves by improper marriages, elopements, often social crimes, which must blight their lives and those of all connected with them, I think what I should do under such circumstances.

"Elizabeth, I could not endure it. You are my wife; I love you more deeply than you know of; but I tell you that I could better bear sorrow which came to me through my wife, than the weakness or dishonor of one who claimed my name by right of birth. It is an inherited pride, which has, I know, come down from father to son, and will go with me through life.

"But Elsie is safe—in your hands quite safe. I rest upon that thought. I remember her loveliness, her innocence, her sweet childish ways, and I am at peace again, knowing that you will care for her."

This was the letter Grantley Mellen had written during his long exile, and his wife sat reading it in the presence of that sleeping girl.

After a time Elizabeth folded up the letters, kissed them passionately, and laid them away.

"Perhaps it is the last time," she murmured. "The last time! I must not think of it. Oh, my God, how will this day pass?"

She began walking up and down the rooms again, treading softly that she might not disturb Elsie's slumber. This time her movements had some purpose. She went into her dressing-room, took her riding dress from a wardrobe and hastened to put it on. She grew cold, and her poor hands shivered as she drew on her gauntlet gloves, and tied the veil over her hat. In passing through the next room, the unhappy woman lingered a moment to look on that sleeping girl, and her soul filled itself with the cruel desolation of this thought.

"He will not feel it so very much when it is only me on whom disgrace falls," she thought, with mournful satisfaction. "For her at least I shall have done my best. I have struggled so hard to keep the fair creature he loves from harm. When I am swept from his path, like a black cloud that had no silver lining for him, he will be happy with her. I ought to be comforted by this. Yet, oh, my God! my God! this thought alone makes the worst of my misery. They will be so happy, and without me!"

In passing down stairs Elizabeth met Dolf, moving dejectedly up from the basement story where Vic had so maliciously disturbed his love making. He stood aside to make room for his mistress, who addressed him in her usual calm fashion.

"Go to the stables," she said, "and order my groom to bring Gipsy round; he need not trouble himself to attend me. I shall ride alone."

Dolf hurried down the hall, and his mistress went into her little sitting-room, opened her desk and wrote some words on a slip of paper which she folded and thrust under the gauntlet of her glove. Then she stood by the window watching till her horse was brought round.

He came at last, a light graceful animal, so full of life, that he fairly danced upon the gravel, and flung the sunshine from his arched neck with the grace of a wild gazelle. He whinnied a little, and put out his head for a tribute of sugar, which Bessie always gave him before she mounted the saddle. But she had nothing of the kind for him now; scarcely touching the groom's hand with her foot, she sprang upon his back and rode slowly away, turning him upon the turf which was like velvet, and gave back no sound. Thus, with an appearance of indolent leisure, she passed out of sight.

There was nothing remarkable in this. Elizabeth had been in the habit of riding around the estate, without escort, during the two years in which her husband had been absent, so the groom went back to his work and thought no more of the matter.

Elizabeth rode forward, without any appearance of excitement, until a grove of trees concealed her from the house; then she put her horse upon the road, and ran him at the top of his speed to the edge of the village.

Once among houses she rode on leisurely again, and stopped at the post office to enquire for letters,—getting down from her horse, an unusual thing with her. There was a telegraph station connected with the post office, and while the man was searching his mail, she took the slip of paper from her glove, and laid it with some money before the operator.

The telegram was directed to that hotel near the Battery, which has already been described.