she, piteously. "I call heaven to witness you have wronged me."

"Wronged you!--why, after all, with what have I charged you?" said he,
scoffingly; "but let that pass. I have formed my opinions, arrived at my
conclusions. If I have not named them broadly, you at least seem to
understand their nature thoroughly. I know the world. I am no novice in
the arts of women, mademoiselle. Reserve your vows and attestations for
schoolboys and simpletons; they are sadly thrown away upon me."

Marston paced to and fro, with his hands thrust into his pockets, as he
thus spoke.

"Then you don't, or rather you will not believe what I tell you?" said
she, imploringly. "No," he answered, drily and slowly, as he passed her.
"I don't, and I won't (as you say) believe one word of it; so, pray spare
yourself further trouble about the matter."

She raised her head, and darted after him a glance that seemed absolutely
to blaze, and at the same time smote her little hand fast clenched upon
her breast. The words, however, that trembled on her pale lips were not
uttered; her eyes were again cast down, and her fingers played with the
little locket that hung round her neck.

"I must make, before I go," she said, with a deep sigh and a melancholy
voice, "one confidence--one last confidence: judge me by it. You cannot
choose but believe me now: it is a secret, and it must even here be
whispered, whispered, whispered!"

As she spoke, the color fled from her face, and her tones became so
strange and resolute, that Marston turned short upon his heel, and