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his plea to her to abandon the action, and return to him and the children—might not be without effect. That Holmes would use every argument to bring this state of things about, Ann had not the least doubt. She was convinced that she had spoken the truth when she said to Vera: “You know that there’s only one woman in his life—you.” Ann did not believe that his love for his wife was imperishable. She doubted if any human love could survive persistent indifference and neglect. But Dick Holmes was one of the steadfast kind—the best kind—and his affection for Vera would take some killing. It was by no means dead yet.

In her heart Ann was conscious of a very deep pity for Vera, and she could never rid herself of the belief that in her own queer way the older woman still retained a fondness for her—Ann Merrill. Vera had been jealous of her, and capable of sacrificing her to gain her own ends, but then Vera had been more than half crazy and desperate during the past few months. Somehow Ann felt assured that sanity had now returned to the poor tormented soul. It was a very sad sanity. Vera faced the wreck of all her hopes of happiness. They were illusions, those hopes, Ann knew. She would never have found happiness with Waring. And perhaps some day, if she could be induced to return to Holmes, and to her children, more happiness might come to her than she was likely to believe possible at the present moment. Now, Ann knew, Holmes’s wife was in purgatory, and no one in the world but Ann was aware of her anguish. The fact that Vera had brought this suffering upon herself did not diminish Ann’s pity. It was so easy for those who had never been tempted—for those of easy, equable