The cook was full of regrets that madame had been compelled to give her own orders, and, amid a world of protestations, Mrs. Nelson went back to her room. Soon after she rang the bell with emphasis, and directly that exquisite breakfast service was re-arranged for two, and one of the silken easy chairs rolled opposite her own.

"Go tell Mr. Nelson that I am waiting for him to breakfast with me," she said, drawing close to the table, and forcing the clouds from her face.

She waited impatiently till the man came back, tapping the carpet with her restless foot. What if she had gone too far? If he ever could have thought of another might it not be so again? and she so completely in his power, so helpless without his wealth.

The servant came back.

"Mr. Nelson's compliments, but he had taken breakfast hours ago."

The woman absolutely turned pale. It was the first time he had ever refused an advance of any kind from her. She arose, stood in thought an instant, and then left the room.

"Master is in his office, madame," said the servant.

"Yes, I know—he was not well this morning."

She swept through the hall again, and crossing two or three rooms, entered one in the extreme southern wing of the house. In this place, Nelson had, of late, taken his meals alone. It was simply an office upon the ground floor, containing a few chairs, an oaken bookcase, heavy with carving, and a library table, which stood in the centre of a small Persian carpet. There was nothing very remarkable in this apartment, except one thing. The floor was paved like the entrance hall, with a rich mosaic pattern of variously tinted marble. Mrs. Nelson felt a chill from the stones through her thin slippers, and exclaimed:

"Dear me, Nelson, what a dreary place you have! All wood work and stone. I never observed how very comfortless it was before."

Nelson was locking something in a drawer of his writing-table, and his face was bent, but she saw the blood rush to his forehead.

"I do not find it disagreeable," he said, gravely.

"Ah, but my room is so much pleasanter," she said, approaching the table, and laying a hand caressingly on his arm.

He rose up suddenly, shaking her hand away.

The color mounted to her temples, but she controlled the temper that burned within her.

"You are out of sorts, dear husband; and I am lonesome. Come away from this cold room."

"It is not colder than usual," he answered, curtly; but a thrill ran through his frame and the blood tingled in his veins. She had never called him by that endearing name but once before, not even in the first days of their marriage.

Her hand had fallen lightly on his wrist—she felt the leap of the pulse, and smiled with inward triumph.

"Come, come. I am getting angry. How could you neglect me so? Busy, busy, all the time; about what? and I left alone! Come—this morning I will take no refusal! You shall breakfast with me!"

Nelson took her hand, grasping it hard, and looked steadily in her face.

"Ellen, what is the meaning of this?"

"It means that I want to see my husband now and then, or he will forget how much I love him."

Nelson shook his head. This sweet flattery was too sudden. It lacked the ring of truth, and he felt it.

He looked at her sternly.

"Ellen!"

"Well, what is it?"

"What do you desire in exchange for these minutes of deception?"

"Nelson!"

"It is a simple question. If you have any wish ungratified, speak. This cajolery is not necessary."

"You are cruel, Nelson."

He saw the tears mount slowly to her eyes; the hand which touched his, trembled.

"You have ceased to love me, Nelson?"

She asked this question breathlessly; all the splendor of her position seemed fading away. Her lips grew white, and she leaned heavily on the table. Ambition spoke loudly as her heart should have done.

Her evident grief made his pulses leap. The white lips—the trembling of those limbs. The emotion thus betrayed must be genuine. He stood irresolute, looking at her. The thick lashes drooped over her eyes, her bosom began to heave.

"Ellen, is this real?"

She lifted those velvety eyes to his, and the man was her slave again. Three weeks from this day, two important things were concluded. A deed of gift, conveying the mansion house, was made out in favor of Ellen Nelson, and a large amount of foreign gold was deposited in one of the leading city banks, subject to her order. Those few sweet words had brought her a golden harvest; but what was that compared to the vast wealth which still remained in her husband's power? wealth that could not be brought out in the face of the world, though she had never been permitted to know its hiding-place. While her husband held this great secret back from her knowledge she could not feel altogether secure, for what was moderate wealth to a woman who had dreamed so long of millions?

In the depth of his heart, Nelson may have felt that his secret was the strongest tie that bound him to his wife. If so, it was one of those cruel thoughts that men put away from their souls only to feel them creeping back again like serpents. One thing is certain, he clung to the secret of his gold with stern tenacity, and watched all her stealthy movements toward it with the vigilance of a hound. The golden chains with which his wife was bound became more important to him every day. While he lived, that should fetter her to his side if love could not. When he died—a shudder ran through his soul as he thought of that. Was he certain that retribution would wait for him till then?