by herself. I put the matter plainly: it is too
important to be trifled with. What do you say
—yes, or no?"

"I say, yes," replied Magdalen, after a
moment's consideration. "On the understanding
that I am to take her out walking as you propose."

Captain Wragge bowed, and recovered his
suavity of manner. "What are our plans?" he
inquired. "Shall we start our enterprise this
afternoon? Are you ready for your introduction
to Mrs. Lecount and her master?"

"Quite ready."

"Good, again. We will meet them on the
parade, at their usual hour for going out—two
o'clock. It is not twelve yet. I have two hours
before me—just time enough to fit my wife into
her new Skin. The process is absolutely necessary,
to prevent her compromising us with the
servant. Don't be afraid about the results; Mrs.
Wragge has had a copious selection of assumed
names hammered into her head in the course of
her matrimonial career. It is merely a question
of hammering hard enough—nothing more. I
think we have settled everything now. Is there
anything I can do before two o'clock? Have
you any employment for the morning?"

"No," said Magdalen. "I shall go back to
my own room, and try to rest."

"You had a disturbed night, I am afraid?"
said the captain, politely opening the door for
her.

"I fell asleep once or twice," she answered,
carelessly. "I suppose my nerves are a little
shaken. The bold black eyes of that man who
stared so rudely at me yesterday evening, seemed
to be looking at me again in my dreams. If
we see him to-day, and if he annoys me any
more, I must trouble you to speak to him. We
will meet here again at two o'clock. Don't be
hard with Mrs. Wragge; teach her what she
must learn, as tenderly as you can."

With those words she left him, and went
upstairs.

She laid down on her bed, with a heavy sigh,
and tried to sleep. It was useless. The dull
weariness of herself which now possessed her,
was not the weariness which finds its remedy in
repose. She rose again, and sat by the window,
looking out listlessly over the sea.

A weaker nature than hers would not have
felt the shock of Frank's desertion as she had
felt it—as she was feeling it still. A weaker
nature would have found refuge in indignation
and comfort in tears. The passionate strength
of Magdalen's love clung desperately to the
sinking wreck of its own delusion—clung, until
she tore herself from it, by main force of will.
All that her native pride, her keen sense of
wrong could do, was to shame her from dwelling
on the thoughts which still caught their breath
of life from the undying devotion of the past;
which still perversely ascribed Frank's heartless
farewell to any cause but the inborn baseness of
the man who had written it. The woman never
lived yet who could cast a true love out of her
heart, because the object of that love was
unworthy of her. All she can do is to struggle
against it in secret—to sink in the contest, if she
is weak; to win her way through it, if she is
strong, by a process of self-laceration, which is
of all moral remedies applied to a woman's
nature the most dangerous and the most desperate;
of all moral changes the change that is
surest to mark her for life. Magdalen's strong
nature had sustained her through the struggle;
and the issue of it had left her—what she now
was.

After sitting by the window for nearly an
hour—her eyes looking mechanically at the
view; her mind empty of all impressions, and
conscious of no thoughts—she shook off the
strange waking stupor that possessed her, and
rose to prepare herself for the serious business
of the day.

She went to the wardrobe, and took down
from the pegs two bright, delicate muslin
dresses which had been made for summer
wear at Combe-Raven, a year since, and
which had been of too little value to be worth
selling when she parted with her other possessions.
After placing these dresses, side by side
on the bed, she looked into the wardrobe once
more. It only contained one other summer
dress—the plain alpaca gown which she had
worn during her memorable interview with Noel
Vanstone and Mrs. Lecount. This she left
in its place; resolving not to wear it, less
from any dread that the housekeeper might
recognise a pattern too quiet to be noticed, and
too common to be remembered, than from the
conviction that it was neither gay enough nor
becoming enough for the purpose. After taking
a plain white muslin scarf, a pair of light grey
kid gloves, and a garden-hat of Tuscan straw,
from the drawers of the wardrobe, she locked it,
and put the key carefully in her pocket.

Instead of at once proceeding to dress herself,
she sat idly looking at the two muslin gowns;
careless which she wore, and yet inconsistently
hesitating which to choose. "What does it
matter!" she said to herself, with a reckless
laugh; "I am equally worthless in my own
estimation, whichever I put on." She shuddered,
as if the sound of her own laughter had startled
her; and abruptly caught up the dress which
lay nearest to her hand. Its colours were blue
and white—the shade of blue which best suited
her fair complexion. She hurriedly put on the
gown, without going near her looking-glass. For
the first time in her life, she shrank from meeting
the reflexion of herself—except for a
moment, when she arranged her hair under her
garden-hat, leaving the glass again immediately.
She drew her scarf over her shoulders, and fitted
on her gloves, with her back to the toilet-table.
"Shall I paint?" she asked herself, feeling
instinctively that she was turning pale. "The
rouge is still left in my box. It can't make my
face more false than it is already." She looked