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of the truth in her heart through the old letters.

As she wrote, it seemed to become clear that she had never seriously intended to leave him; development that could lead a woman away from the man to whom she had sworn fidelity, could be nothing but a false growth.

The game had been "dangerous," if it had been anyone but Tom! But, with him, now that she had owned herself in the wrong, she had no fear.

When her letter was finished, she bethought her of the lavender; she folded it within the sheet, and added a postscript, recalling to his memory the day in the garden when they had plucked it together. He had told her that to his mind she was like it for softness of colour—he could see the purple shadows beneath the greyness of her eyes. Also in the endurance of its sweetness it was a fitting type of the quiet strength of their love; and many other pretty things he had conjured out of the homely flower. Alas! how miserably had she failed. Now she sent it to him, as a reminder and the strongest pleading, stronger than her words could be.

She had posted her letter that night, and all the next day went happily about the house, feeling reinstated.

Then—this morning—the answer had lain upon the breakfast table. The envelope, with the direction in the hand she knew so well, and within, the withered lavender and those three pregnant words.

She pressed her hands to her bosom as she recalled that pain.

Not the least part of it was the destruction of her faith, the irony of the official message was so untrue to the belief in her husband's nature which she had cherished, even when she was most rebellious. She was forced soon to rouse herself, for she felt clearly that there must be no further delay. She could plead no more; the last breath of the fragrance of their love was dead, and she had nothing to urge. Tom had finished the work she had begun, taken her at her word finally. She had laid bare before him the inner sanctuary, and he had looked back at her scornfully and derisively. It was a cruel wrong. Beneath it, his suggestion that she should return to her aunt's roof became intolerable; she was in no mood to bear question or criticism, and the avoidance of scandal became a small matter where all was wrecked. She felt no responsibility towards Miss Poyntz, she was only her great-aunt, and, so long as Elsa could remember, had been feeble and querulous, often finding the presence of her niece a burden. The life of the outer world touched her but faintly; probably, unless her niece returned to her roof, she would never fully understand what had occurred.

Mrs. Vane was scarcely a strong-minded woman, but she gathered strength from a certain persistency of will that enabled her to surmount weakness when the need of action was clear. The beacon lights of aspiration had become painfully misty, but she was not long in forming her plans.

She could take no help from her husband; her private income would suffice to keep her from actual want, and she had education, with—she had been told—some talent, to fall back upon. She would go to Paris, and complete the studies she had begun at the Cambridge local school of painting, in connection with South Kensington. She had her certificates, and she knew the address of a Home for Students, to which she had once petitioned her aunt to send her. There, if she could not be received, she would, at any rate, be directed to a suitable appartement, and to the best studios. She wrote a few lines to her husband.

"Your reply has convinced me that my first judgment was right; you will not be surprised that I have acted upon it. I beg to be relieved of all offers of assistance."

These she inclosed and sealed, and laid the packet where she knew he could not fail to see it on his return.

No further hesitation or avowed regrets delayed her preparations; the following day she went to town, as the first stage upon her journey.

Mrs. Crawley, of 131, Marlborough Road, had not always let apartments. She was one of those unfortunate people who had come down in the world, and her descent had been rapid, and entirely owing to the speculative tendencies of Mr. Crawley. Although she had faced the position bravely enough, she was keenly alive to the discernment of her new lodger, Mrs. Poyntz; who with rare delicacy ignored the landlady in the hard-worked gentlewoman. Mrs. Poyntz's own means limited her to rooms on the third floor, and her great loneliness may have led her to welcome her landlady's visits when the latter found leisure for rest after the toils of the day. For, although young, and more than ordinarily good-looking, the new lodger seemed strangely friendless. No one called upon her, and she rarely