down upon a scene which would have chilled the blood of Ralph Browning
and made his heart stand still. Upon a single bedstead near the window
Rosamond Leyton lay calmly sleeping--her brown curls floating o'er the
pillow--her cheeks flushed with health and beauty--her lips slightly
apart and her slender hands folded gracefully upon her bosom. Over her
a fierce woman bent--her long, black hair streaming down her back--her
eyes blazing with passion--her face the impersonation of malignity and
hate; and there she stood, a vulture watching a harmless dove.
Rosamond was dreaming of her home, and the ogress, standing near,
heard her murmur, "dear Mr. Browning."

For a moment Marie Porter stood immovable--then gliding back to her
own couch, she whispered, "It is as I believed, and now _if_ he loves
_her_, the time I've waited for so long has come."

All that night she lay awake, burning with excitement and thirsting
for revenge, and when the morning came, the illness was not feigned
which kept her in her bed and wrung from her cries of pain. She was
really suffering now, and during the next few days, Rosamond stayed
almost constantly at her side, administering to her wants, and caring
for her so tenderly that hatred died out of the woman's heart, and she
pitied the fair young girl, for in those few days she had learned what
Rosamond did not know herself, though she was gradually waking up to
it now. It was a long time since she had been separated from Mr.
Browning, and she missed him so much, following him in fancy through
the day, and at night wondering if he were thinking of her, and
wishing he could hear the sound of her voice singing to him as she was
wont to do when the twilight was over the earth. Anon there crept into
her heart a feeling she could not define--a feverish longing to be
where he was--a sense of desolation and terrible pain when she thought