Elizabeth Mellen shuddered visibly when the first sunbeam fell through the curtains. Only a few moments were left to them. Sick and faint, she lifted her head and turned her imploring eyes on her husband's face—eyes so full of yearning agony, that his heart must have leaped through all its doubts to meet hers, had not his glance been fixed upon Elsie. The long, black lashes drooped over those gray eyes when she found their appeal disregarded, and the young wife shrunk within herself, shuddering at her own loneliness.

A servant came to the room, and by a sign announced breakfast. It was the last meal they might ever take together. This thought struck them both, and brought their hands in contact with a thrilling clasp. He drew her arm through his, and led her down stairs. She felt his heart beating against her arm, looked up, and saw that he was regarding her with glances of searching tenderness. Her eyes filled; her bosom heaved; and, but for a wild struggle, she would have burst into a passion of tears before the servant, who held the door open for them to pass into the breakfast-room.

How bright and cheerful it all looked—the crusted snow of the linen; the delicately chased silver, and more delicate china; and this was their last meal. She sat down and poured out his coffee. Her hand trembled, but she tried to smile when he took the cup and praised its aroma. She drank some herself, for the chill at her heart was spreading to her face and hands.

Little was said during the meal, and less was eaten. Elizabeth looked at the clock as a convict gazes on the axe that is to slay him. She counted the moments as they crept away, devouring the brief time yet given to them, while he glanced at his watch, nervously every few minutes.

Then the husband and wife went up stairs again. Elizabeth turned from Elsie's door and went into her own dressing-room. With all her magnanimity she could not give her husband up to his sister during the last moments of his stay. He followed her into the room, but directly lifted the curtain and went into Elsie's boudoir, where the young girl lay profoundly sleeping. Elizabeth would not follow. Her heart was swelling too painfully. She sat down, clasped both hands in her lap, and waited like a statue.

He had only crossed the boudoir, bent over Elsie, and pressed a cautious but most loving kiss on her forehead. She did not move, but smiled softly in her sleep, and he stole away, blessing her.

Elizabeth's heart gave a sudden leap when he came into her room again and sat down by her side. He felt how cold her hand was, and kissed it.

"Elizabeth!"

She turned, frightened by the tone of his voice. It was hoarse with emotion.

"Elizabeth, I have one charge to give before we part."

She bent her head in sorrowful submission.

"Elsie, my sister!"

He did not notice the red flame that shot up to her cheek, or the shrinking of her whole frame, but went on.

"The child is so precious to me. The dearest human being I have on earth—" He hesitated a moment, and added, "Except—except you, my wife."

She was grateful even for this. Was it that she was conscious of deserving nothing more, or did the hungry yearning of her heart seize on this sweet aliment with thankfulness after the famine of her recent life?

He saw the tears spring into her eyes, and drew her closer to his side.

"Be careful of her for my sake, Elizabeth. She was given me in solemn charge at my mother's death-bed. She has been the sweetest solace of my barren life. Let no harm come near her—no evil thing taint the mind which I leave in your hands pure as snow. Guard her, love her, and give her back to me, gentle, guileless, and good, as she lies now, in the sweetest and most innocent sleep I ever witnessed."

"I will! I will!" answered Elizabeth, conquering a sharp spasm of pain with the spirit of a martyr. "If human care, or human sacrifice can insure her welfare, I will not be found wanting."

Grantley bent down and kissed his wife gratefully.

"Remember, Elizabeth, my happiness and honor are left in your keeping."

Did he mean that honor and happiness both were bound up in Elsie, or had he really thought of her rightful share in his life?

This question flashed through the young wife's mind, but she would not accept it in a bitter sense then. The parting hour was close at hand. She trembled as each moment left them.

"I will be kind to Elsie as you can desire; indeed I will," she said. "You can trust me."

"If I doubted that, harassing as the voyage is, I would take her with me."

"Oh, if you only could take us both! It terrifies me to be left alone, surrounded with—"

"That is out of the question now. But when I come back, we will try and make this life of ours happier than it has been."

She looked at him—her great, mournful eyes widening with pain.

"Have you been very unhappy, then, Grantley," she faltered.

"Unhappy! I did not say that; but hereafter our bliss must be more perfect. We shall understand each other better."

"Shall we—shall we ever? Oh, Grantley, without love what perfect understanding can exist?"

Her fine eyes were flooded with tears; every feature in her face quivered with emotion.

A clock on the mantel-piece chimed out the hour of his departure. On the instant Dolf knocked at the door.

Elizabeth started up, trembling like a wounded bird that struggles away from a second shot.

"So soon! so soon!" she cried, wringing her hands. "I had so much to ask; everything to say, and now there is no time."

Grantley took her in his arms, and kissed her very hurriedly, for the servant was standing in sight.

"God bless you, Elizabeth, I must go!"

She flung her arms wildly around him. Her pale face was lifted to his in mute appeal. Was it for pardon of some unknown offence, or the deep craving of a true heart for love?

Grantley put her away, and went hurriedly into Elsie's room. He came out pale and troubled. Elizabeth stood by the door gasping her breath; he wrung the hand she held forth to stop him, and was gone. She heard his steps as they went down the walnut-staircase, and they fell upon her like distinct blows. The great hall-door closed with a sharp noise that made her start, and with a burst of bitter, bitter anguish, cry out. Then came the sound of carriage-wheels grinding through gravel, and the beat of hoofs that seemed trampling down the heart in her bosom. As these sounds died off, she attempted to reach the window and look out, but only fell upon the couch which stood near it, and fainted without a moan.