As I cried out, I turned slightly and, for a moment, lost the picture. It was changed when again I saw it; Randolph Chance was still there, but he no longer advanced toward the vision wife—she had faded into mist; he came slowly toward me. There was a beautiful look on his face—I cannot describe it—it was too holy to translate into language; but I could feel it vibrate through my being until it set my very soul a-quivering. I had no power of resistance—no wish to resist. I almost think I went toward him, and he was as real to me as if he were in the flesh. I could feel him as he put his arm around my waist, and his face touched mine. The vision child had melted away; and we two were alone; I knew my heart then; I knew I loved this man.

It was all over in a few moments, but such moments as make an eternity, for they wipe out the past, even as death blots out a life, and they open a door to the future. Up to that time I had never thought that, without my knowledge or intent, my heart could slip from me—had never dreamed that I, whose life had always been most commonplace—I, who had had my share of wooing, but had never felt an extra heart-beat because of it—no, never dreamed that I, this I, so practical and sensible, could be carried off my feet by a vision. A vision, was it? Yes, and yet real, too real in some ways, since it revealed my innermost thought. A vision! And yet, even now that it had melted into air, I was clinging to it, and instead of resenting its startling revelation of self, was dwelling upon it, and in it, with a delight beyond words.I sat there in my study, my head bent, and my hands loosely clasped in my lap, living it over and over again. Out of doors, the soft gray dusk had hushed the tired world in its arms. Within, the stillness of night had settled down upon the room. By and by the moon rose above the great waters of the lake, and on shore the trees were casting silent, solemn shadows, made visible by the soft, hazy light that lay between them. Once in a while a bird uttered its night cry, or some little brooding note, and over on the vine-clad gallery, Mrs. Thrush still crooned a lullaby to her little child, who lay asleep—soft and warm, on her mother-breast.

I was no longer lonely, no longer shut out from it all—there was the bird on its nest; the little wife and mother in her home; and I—I was very near them—akin to them. I had seen myself in my home, with my child, and my husband; I had felt his dear arms about me, and his dear face close to mine. I was no longer an alien. I, too, had a place in the heart of another.

Still I sat and dreamed, and even the ringing of my door-bell failed to rouse me: but when I heard the maid say to someone:

“She has been downstairs to-night, but I think she has gone up now, and I don’t like to call her.”

I started forward, saying quickly:

“No, I am here—I will see any one.”

And so he came in, but it was not the one I expected. It was Mr. Gregory.

I think that he found my embarrassment on greeting him both gratifying and encouraging, but its cause was alien to his thought. I was brought back from another world, as it were, with a rude shock, and in my enfeebled condition, consequent upon a severe illness could not control myself. Indeed I did not feel that I was mistress of myself at any time during the evening.

After a word or two, which I cannot recall, I stammered out:“I was not expecting you this evening—I had not sent for you.”

“I know that you have not,” he answered—then dropping his voice a trifle, he added, “I could not wait any longer—I found it difficult to wait so long as this. I hardly dared hope that I might see you this evening, but I felt I must try.”

Intent upon sparing him the pain of a spoken declaration, I exclaimed:

“Oh, Mr. Gregory, don’t! please don’t say anything more. I am not deserving of your esteem and kindness.”

He came nearer me, and his voice was at once tender and reverent, as he said:

“You are more than worthy of what I have to offer, which is myself, and all that I have.”

“Don’t!” I cried again; “don’t say anything more! Let us imagine this unsaid!”

“Such words can never be recalled,” he said gravely.

“They must be,” I persisted; “I cannot accept! I have nothing to give in return!”A look of disappointment came over his face, and if I mistake not, it was shaded with displeasure. “I hardly expected this, Miss Leigh, I have hardly been led to expect this.”

“I know what you mean, Mr. Gregory,” I replied, more calmly than I had spoken before; “I know that I have accepted your attentions—you have had every reason to expect a different answer. I’ll not try to deceive you, or keep anything from you. I’ll tell you that I have not been trifling. I have understood you for some time——”

He interrupted me here.

“Yes, you must have done so; my attentions to you could have but one interpretation, if I were a man of honor, and you knew I was that.”

“I did, indeed,” I exclaimed. And then my mind went, with a flash like lightning, to Randolph Chance, and I felt a sudden resentment. Had not he shown me attentions that no man of honor can bestow upon a woman, unless he wishes to make her his wife? Why had he left me in this strait? Why had he not spoken out? Why had he not claimed before the world that which he had taken such pains to win? I was uncertain about Randolph Chance; I had never been uncertain about Mr. Gregory. Why? Because I had perfect confidence in his honor. Was he not the better man—the more trustworthy? Why could I not marry him? I loved another man. A wave of shame and anger swept my face.

“I have all along been expecting to marry you. I have not been trifling,” I cried out.

He stepped forward, and took my hand. It was as cold as ice.

“What is it then, Constance, that has changed you? Have I done anything since your illness to make you think less of me?”

I trembled from head to foot, and my lips were so stiff and dry that they scarce would do my bidding. I must have spoken very indistinctly.

“No—no,” I said slowly; “I will tell you everything—I have done you a wrong, an unintentional wrong, but I will do penance—I have seen myself to-night—” I paused here; Mr. Gregory was a practical man; had I told him that a vision had changed my attitude, he would have thought me insane. I myself had begun to entertain doubts as to my sanity. “I know myself now,” I faltered, “I know my heart—I love another man.”

Mr. Gregory rose, and began pacing the floor.

“This surprises me greatly,” he said at length; “there must have been another courtship—it would seem that you must have known something of how matters were tending.”

“I have known nothing until to-night. There has been no courtship, in the ordinary acceptation of that word—I’ll tell you all, even if it humbles me completely, as a penalty for what I have done to you. The man I love—” I could feel the blood mantling my face and neck, “has never addressed me.”

Mr. Gregory paused, and looked at me.

“This is extraordinary,” he said.

“It is—I know it is—it is most of all so to me, for it is wholly unlike what I have been all my life.”

“Let us not talk of this any more to-night, Miss Leigh,” he said, with evident relief; “I have been wrong to press this matter now, when you are hardly recovered. You are not yourself. This is something transitory, no doubt. Later on, you may feel differently.”

“No, no!” I exclaimed eagerly, “now that we have begun, let us say it all. Don’t—I beg of you, don’t go away with a feeling that I don’t know my mind. I am weak and miserable to-night—” here the tears choked my voice, and I all but broke down, “but I am miserable because I have learned my true feeling, and know that I must disappoint——”I could not go on, and again he sat down beside me and took my hand.

“I cannot understand you,” he said simply.

“I can’t understand myself,” I replied; “but all this is none the less real for that. I have learned of it to-night, but it has existed before; it explains many things in the past year.”

“If that is the case, then I must accept your decision as final.”

“It is, indeed,” I answered briefly.

He rose, and walked the room in silence again; then pausing once more, he said calmly, and with no trace of anger.

“This is the disappointment of my life.”

I said nothing. What could I say? To utter any platitudes about being sorry, would have been to insult him.

“A man cannot live to my age—I am fifty-two, Miss Leigh—without experiencing disappointment, but I have known nothing equal to this.”

He paced the room a few moments, and then said:“This interview must be distressing to you. I am very sorry I brought it about before you were strong and well.”

“Say one thing before you go, Mr. Gregory,” I cried, “only say that you don’t think I have willfully misled you—say that you respect me still.”

His face was stirred by a slight quiver, as a placid lake is stirred by an impulse of the evening air.

“You have had, and you always will have my deepest respect, and my deepest affection.”

He took my hand silently, and then quietly left the room.

And I sat there until I heard the front door close. Then I went upstairs, but I remember nothing after reaching the first landing.

They found me lying there. They said I must have fainted.