Mellen was seized with a sudden fear.

"Elsie," he said, "if anything should happen to me; if I should die——"

She caught his hands and began to tremble.

"What do you mean? Die—die!"

"Nothing, dear; don't be frightened. But life is uncertain; what I mean is this—if you should outlive me promise never to seek that woman; never to let her come near you."

"I can't promise that; I can't be so wicked."

"You must, Elsie."

"I can't; I won't! No, no; I'll never be bad enough for that!"

"If you refuse me this, Elsie, you will sink a gulf between us which can never be filled up."

"Don't talk so; remember how sick I am."

"I do; I won't agitate you, but we must have an end of this subject. If I should die—"

"I won't hear you talk about dying," she broke in. "You frighten me; you'll kill me."

But he went on resolutely;

"Promise never to see or hear from her."

"Not that; it is too wicked—too horrible."

"Elsie," he cried, in stern passion, "promise, or I will go out of this room, and though we live together it shall be as strangers."

He rose as if to fulfil his threat; she sprang up in bed; her cowardice, her selfishness mastered every other feeling.

"I promise. Come back, Grant, come back; oh, do!"

He seated himself again, soothed and caressed her.

"We will not talk any more," he said, kindly. "Henceforth let everything connected with this subject be dead between us; that woman's name must never be mentioned here; her very memory must be swept out of the dwelling she has dishonored. You and I will bury the past, Elsie, and place a heavy stone over the tomb; will you remember that, child?"

"Yes, yes; anything! Do what you please; I cannot struggle any longer; it is not my fault."

"Indeed no, darling! You are tender and forgiving as an angel! Oh, Elsie, in all the world yours is the only true heart I have found."

She lay there and allowed him to speak those words; she suffered terribly in her shallow, cowardly way, but she could not force her soul to be courageous even then. In time her volatile nature might turn determinedly from the dark tragedy. She probably would convince herself that she was powerless; that, since it could do no good to grieve over Elizabeth and her mournful fate, it was better that she should dismiss all recollection of it from her mind, drown her regrets, enjoy such pleasures as presented themselves, and build up a new world between her and the past.

But as yet she could not do that; she was completely unnerved and incapable of any resolution. She writhed there in pitiable pain and caught at every straw for comfort.

"You won't forget your promise, Grant?"

"What, dear?"

"To send money—that she may live, you know."

"I will not forget, rest satisfied. I will attend to it this very day; don't think about that any more."

"How can I help thinking? You might as well tell me not to breathe; I must think!"

"The end has come; it can do no good to look back!"

Almost the very words Elizabeth had so many times repeated during those last terrible days; the recollection went like a dagger to Elsie's soul.

It was a long time before she could be restored to anything like composure; then Mellen forbade her to talk, fearing the consequences of continued excitement.

"You can sleep, now, darling; you will be better in the morning."

"And you will take me away from here, Grant?"

"Yes, dear; whenever you like."

"I don't care about the place—the farther the better! I cannot stay in this house—I should die here. But not to Europe—oh, you won't take me to Europe?"

He only thought the sudden terror in her voice rose from a fear of the voyage or some similar weakness.

"You shall choose, Elsie; just where you please. We will go to the West Indies—as you say, the farther the better."

"Yes, Grant, yes."

"Now shut your eyes and go to sleep."

"You won't leave me," she pleaded.

"No; I shall stay near you all night."

"It is so dreadful," she went on, glancing wildly about the room; "I should go mad to wake up and find myself alone."

"You shall not, dear; indeed you shall not."

She grew quiet then; after a little time he heard Victoria in the hall, and went out to speak with her.

"You will lie down on the bed in the room next Miss Elsie's," he said, "and be near her if she wants anything."

He had not forgotten that he must be absent in the night, and was careful to guard the cherished girl against every possible cause of fright or agitation.

He spent the evening in Elsie's sick chamber as he had passed the day. Elsie did not sleep, but she was glad to lie quiet and keep her eyes closed, shutting out the objects around her. Sometimes when her reflections became too painful to bear, she would start up, catch his hands and shriek his name wildly, but his voice always served to calm her.

Towards midnight she fell into a heavy slumber. More than an hour before he heard Victoria enter the next room, and knew that he could leave Elsie in safety.

He bent over the bed, kissed her white forehead, and stole softly out of the room.

He went down into the library and sat there drearily, starting at the least sound, almost with a belief that he should stand face to face once more with his wife who might yet return on some possible pretence. The hours passed, but there was no step from without, no sign of approach anywhere about the house.

He went to the window, pushed back the curtains and looked out—the first thing he saw was the cypress tree waving its branches as they had done the night before when their moans seemed inarticulate efforts to speak.

The moon was up now, streaming down with a broad, full glory, very different from the spectral radiance of the previous night. How vividly recollection of those fearful hours came back as he stood there! He lived over every pang, felt every torture redoubled—started back as if again looking on the dead object which had shut out all happiness from him for ever.

Suddenly he saw the figure of a man, that man, stealing across the lawn; he did not wait to reflect, flung open the window and dashed out in pursuit. He was too late—the intruder disappeared, and though he made a long and diligent search his efforts were futile.

He returned to the house, livid with the new rage which had come over him.

"I will find him," he muttered; "there is no spot so distant, no place so secret, that my vigilance shall not hunt him down!"

So the night passed, and when the dawn again struggled into the sky Grantley Mellen returned to his sister's chamber, and sat down to watch her deep, painful slumber once more.

No sleep approached his eyelids—it seemed to him that he must not hope to lose consciousness again—that never even for an instant would that crushing sorrow and that mad craving for the lost woman leave him at rest.