done? I know nothing of your history—
why he married you. It was a mistake, no
doubt; but you, and you alone, have made
it a fatal one."

"I will think of what you say," I
answered. "You think I have sinned—sinned
—sinned! You do not heed that I have
suffered."

"Suffered! You will have to suffer much
yet, madam; my prayer for you would be,
that you might suffer, till at last the proud
spirit should lie low, and be crushed out!"

"But it has been pain and suffering and
ceaseless unrest and longing that have
hardened me. Yet I am not hardened—I
would my heart were a stone! I sent for you,
however, for one purpose. Are you convinced
I am not mad? I can hear no more of
anything else now."

"Indeed, madam, before you sent for me, I
had begun to understand your case otherwise.
You are not mad. God forgive you."

"Say that again."

"You are not mad."

"You are to tell my husband so—but stay,
I hear his step—here he comes, repeat it to
him, Dr. Ryton."

My poor Harold came in, he looked
wonderingly and anxiously at me.

"Have you been ill again?" he asked.

"I have never been ill in the way you have
been taught to suppose; Dr. Ryton, repeat
to my husband what you said to me."

"Your wife, Mr. Warden, wishes me to
tell you that I have reason to change the
opinion I expressed to you some time since."

"Speak more plainly, if you please, sir," I
interrupted; "you spoke plainly enough just
now."

"ln short," Dr. Ryton continued, only
pausing while I spoke, not turning towards
me, but looking at my husband steadily and
compassionately; "she is no more mad than
you or I?"

"What is it, then?" Harold asked.

"That Mrs. Warden herself must inform
you," he answered. He went, and Harold
attended him to the door. I sat down to
think. It was some minutes before Harold
came back, and I did not look up to see the
expression of his face. I said in a hard voice,
"I want to be alone—I will go to my own
room—Lily is in the nursery, Harold will be
home from school in half-an-hour, you will
not want me till they go to bed."

"As you like," he answered, indifferently
and wearily; "I am going out—don't you
remember I told you they wanted you, but
you would not come? It is the party at
Gower's mother's."

"Going out again to-night—and there?" I
asked, pausing at the door.

Harold turned to the window.

"Is it any wonder?" he asked recklessly.

"No! it is no wonder that you should
leave your home so often," I replied quietly,
while a burning recollection of half-heeded
scandal came to my mind. I went up to my
room, but I did not pass the hours as I had
intended—the poison of a malicious sentence
rankled in my heart. I paced gloomily
about; a throng of strange thoughts pressed
for recognition, but a demon-hand, torture
strong, held the entrance against them, and
possessed me against my desire, spite of my
endeavours. "He loves you no longer! no
longer!" a mocking voice cried. I laughed
scornfully to myself—I did not believe it; and
yet the words came again and again, each time
louder than before. I would not doubt—I
would know—I thought. The wintry afternoon
(it was a bleak March day) had long blackened
into night, my fire was almost out, and my
room dark and cold, when little feet came
pattering up to my closed door, and my
children's voices called me. They were come
to say "good-night."

I opened my door, but that room was too
dim and chill, and peopled with too unholy
and unhappy thoughts for them; so, with my
little girl in my arms, and my boy's hand in
mine, I went down into the empty drawingroom,
where the fire blazed cheerily and the
lamps burnt brightly.

"Papa is gone out," Harold said, glancing
round the room disconsolately.

"Papa is gone," Lily echoed sadly.

But I sat down by the fire, Lily still in my
arms, and bade Harold bring the great book
which was his delight, and I would tell him
all about the pictures.

It was brought and rested on my knee, the
boy lying on the ground beside it. I leaned
my cheek against my little darling's soft hair
as her fair head rested quietly on my bosom,
and I told wonderful stories to my boy with
his upraised, wondering eyes. I was very
gentle, and we were very happy. When
nurse came there was a great outcry, and
so I sent her away again. The children sat
up an hour later than usual; my Lily fell
asleep upon my bosom, and I carried her
up-stairs, and put her to bed myself.

"You are a dear, dear mamma to-night,"
Harold said, when I bent over him and
kissed his face after he had laid down.
Tears streamed from my eyes—very sweet
tears—I went down to the empty drawingroom,
and sat by the fire, crying quietly a
long while. Then I wiped my eyes and
thought. "If he loves me still, if there is yet
time," I said, and in my mind I turned over
a fair white page of life, and I essayed to
lift my heart penitently to God; but I
sickened when I thought of all my past, and said
"There is no hope—there is no hope!"

It was past midnight when Harold came
home, I was still sitting by the fire.

"You up still?" he said, as he came into
the room.

I did not answer; there was a great
struggle within me, I longed to throw myself
on his bosom, or at his feet, and to weep out
my strange new thoughts, and hopes, and