in bitterness of soul the man she had cast off and thought to take again
cried out, as he stretched his arms toward an invisible form: "Too late,
darling--too late. But had it come two months, one month, or even one
week ago, I would--would--have gone to you over land and sea, but
now--another is in your place, another is my wife; Julia--poor, innocent
Julia. God help me to keep my vow; God help me in my need!"

He was praying now; Julia was the burden of his prayer. And as he prayed
there came into his heart an unutterable tenderness and pity for her. He
had thought he loved her an hour ago! he believed he loved her now, or,
if he did not, he would be to her the kindest, most thoughtful of
husbands, and never let her know, by word or sign, of the terrible pain
he should always carry in his heart. "Darling Daisy; poor Julia!" was
what to himself he designated the two women who were both so much to
him. To the first his love, to the other his tender care, for she was
worthy of it. She was noble, and good, and womanly; he said it many
times, and tried to stop the rapid heart throbs and quiet himself down
to meet her when she should come to him with her frank, open face and
smile, in which there was no shadow of guile. She was coming now; he
heard her voice in the hall speaking to her friend, and, thrusting the
fatal letter in his pocket, he rose to his feet, and steadying himself
upon the table stood waiting for her, as, flushed and eager, she came
in.

"Guy--Guy--what is it? Are you sick?" she asked, alarmed at the pallor
on his face and the strange expression of his eyes.

He was glad she had thus construed his agitation, and he answered that
he was faint and a little sick.