those two women. Edith Snowdon had already tried her power, and accident
only had saved him. Octavia, all unconscious as she was, never failed to
rouse and stimulate the noblest attributes of mind and heart. A year
spent in her society had done much for him, and he loved her with a
strange mingling of passion, reverence, and gratitude. He knew why Edith
Snowdon came, he felt that the old fascination had not lost its charm,
and though fear was unknown to him, he was ill pleased at the sight of
the beautiful, dangerous woman. On the other hand, he saw that Lady
Treherne desired her daughter to shun him and smile on Annon; he
acknowledged that he had no right to win the young creature, crippled
and poor as he was, and a pang of jealous pain wrung his heart as he
watched her.

Then a sense of power came to him, for helpless, poor, and seemingly an
object of pity, he yet felt that he held the honor, peace, and happiness
of nearly every person present in his hands. It was a strong temptation
to this man, so full of repressed passion and power, so set apart and
shut out from the more stirring duties and pleasures of life. A few
words from his lips, and the pity all felt for him would be turned to
fear, respect, and admiration. Why not utter them, and enjoy all that
was possible? He owed the Trehernes nothing; why suffer injustice,
dependence, and the compassion that wounds a proud man deepest? Wealth,
love, pleasure might be his with a breath. Why not secure them now?

His pale face flushed, his eye kindled, and his thin hand lay clenched
like a vise as these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind. A look, a
word at that moment would sway him; he felt it, and leaned forward,
waiting in secret suspense for the glance, the speech which should
decide him for good or ill. Who shall say what subtle instinct caused
Octavia to turn and smile at him with a wistful, friendly look that