many years past, and, as she thought, she felt his arm steal round her and
his lips on her cheek, but at that a mocking voice said in her ear: "You
are my wife. I am not dead." And her happy dream was gone.

George Hagar, looking up from below, saw her sitting alone and slowly made
his way toward her. The result of the meeting between these two seemed
evident. The man had gone. Never in his life had Hagar suffered more than
in the past half hour. That this woman whom he loved--the only woman he
had ever loved as a mature man loves--should be alone with the man who had
made shipwreck of her best days set his veins on fire. She had once loved
Mark Telford. Was it impossible that she should love him again? He tried
to put the thought from him as ungenerous, unmanly, but there is a maggot
which gets into men's brains at times, and it works its will in spite of
them. He reasoned with himself. He recalled the look of perfect confidence
and honesty with which she regarded him before they parted just now. He
talked gayly to Baron and Mildred Margrave, told them to what different
periods of architecture the ruins belonged, and by sheer force of will
drove away a suspicion--a fear--as unreasonable as it was foolish. Yet, as
he talked, the remembrance of the news he had to tell Mrs. Detlor, which
might--probably would--be shipwreck to his hopes of marriage, came upon
him, and presently made him silent, so that he wandered away from the
others. He was concerned as to whether he should tell Mrs. Detlor at once
what Baron had told him or hold it till next day, when she might, perhaps,
be better prepared to hear it, though he could not help a smile at this,
for would not any woman--ought not any woman to--be glad that her husband
was alive? He would wait. He would see how she had borne the interview
with Telford.

Presently he saw that Telford was gone. When he reached her, she was
sitting, as he had often seen her, perfectly still, her hands folded in