her with the bewildered air of one who had lost her way--with the dazed
appearance of one from beneath whose feet the plank of safety had been
withdrawn. It was all over--life was all over; the love that had been
her life was suddenly taken from her. Hope was dead--the past in which
she had lived was all a plank--he did not love her.

She said the words over and over again to herself. He did not love her,
this man to whom she had given the passionate love of her whole heart
and soul--he did not love her, and never intended to ask her to be his
wife.

Why, she had lived for this! This love, lying now in ruins around her,
had been her existence. Standing there, in the first full pain of her
despair, she realized what that love had been--her life, her hope, her
world. She had lived in it; she had known no other wish, no other
desire. It had been her all and now it was less than nothing.

"How am I to live and bear it?" she asked herself again; and the only
answer that came to her was the dull echo of her own despair.

That night, while the sweet flowers slept under the light of the stars,
and the little birds rested in the deep shade of the trees--while the
night wind whispered low, and the moon sailed in the sky--Philippa
L'Estrange, the belle of the season, one of the most beautiful women in
London, one of the wealthiest heiresses in England, wept through the
long hours--wept for the overthrow of her hope and her love, wept for
the life that lay in ruins around her.

She was of dauntless courage--she knew no fear; but she did tremble and
quail before the future stretching out before her--the future that was