completely unnerved, when I found that Lucy Fraser
was not to accompany us on the terrace. As
Martin Fraser stooped to see if the telescope were
rightly adjusted for my use, I shrank from him.

"What is the meaning of this, Stella?" he
exclaimed, as I burst into tears. "Shall I speak
to you now, Stella?" he said, "while there is
yet time, before you leave us. Does your heart
cling to us as our hearts cling to you, till we
dare not think of the void there will be in our
home when you are gone? We did not live
before we knew you. You are our health and
our life. I have noted you as I never watched
a woman before, and I find no fault in you,
my pearl, my jewel, my star. Hitherto, woman
and deceit have been inseparably conjoined in
my mind; but your innocent heart is the home
of truth. I know you have had no thought of
this, and my vehemence alarms you; but tell
me plainly if you can love me?"

He had taken me in his arms, and my head
rested against his strongly throbbing heart.
His sternness and austerity were gone, and he
offered me the undiminished wealth of a love
that had not been wasted in fickle likings. My
success was perfect, and how gladly would I
have remained there till my silence had grown
eloquent! But Barbara rose to my memory,
and Lucy Fraser's words still tingled in my
ears. The black shadow eating away the heart
of the moon seemed to pause in its measured
motion. All heaven looked down upon us
through the solemn stars. The rustling leaves
were hushed, and the scented autumn breeze
ceased for a minute; a cloud of truth-compelling
witnesses echoed the cry of my awakened
conscience. I withdrew myself, sad and shame-
stricken.

"Martin Fraser," I said, "your words
constrain me to be true. I am the falsest
woman you ever met. I came here with the
sole and definite intention of attracting you;
and if you had ever gone out into our circle, you
would have heard of me only as a flirt, a
heartless coquette. I dare not bring falsehood
to your fireside, and the bitterness of death to
your heart. Do not speak to me now; have
patience, and I will write to you!"

He would have detained me, but I sprang
away, and, running swiftly down the avenue, I
passed out of my Eden, with the sentence of
perpetual banishment in my heart. The eclipse
was at the full, and a horror of darkness and
dismay engulfed me, as I stood shivering and
sobbing under the restless poplars.

Barbara met me as I hastened to hide myself
in my own room, and, with her cold glittering
eyes fixed inquiringly on me, said,

"Well, what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing," I answered, "only I am tired of
astronomy, and I shall not go to The Holmes
again. It is of no use."

"I always said so," she replied. "However,
to bring matters to a crisis, I gave Mr. Fraser
notice we should leave at Christmas. Then you
are satisfied that it would be a waste of time to
continue going there?"

"Quite," I said, and passed on to my room,
to learn, through the weary hours of that night,
what desolation and hopelessness meant.

The next day I wrote to Martin Fraser, in
every word sacred truth, excepting that, self-deceived,
and with a false pride even in my utter
humiliation, I told him I had not loved, and did
not love him.

The first object upon which my eyes rested
every joyless morning, were the tall poplar
trees, waving round his house, and beckoning
maddeningly to me. The last thing I saw
at night was the steady light in his library,
shining like a star among the laurels. But, him
I could never see; for my letter had been too
explicit to suggest a hope; and I could not, for
shame, attempt to meet him in his walks. All
that remained, for me was to return to my former
life, if I could by any means feed my hungering
and fainting soul with the husks that had once
satisfied me.

George Yorke renewed his addresses to me,
offering me wealth beyond our expectations.
It was a sore temptation; for before me lay
a monotonous and fretted life with Barbara,
and a solitary, uncared for old age. Why could
not I live as thousands of other women, who
were not unhappy wives? But I remembered
a passage I had read in one of Martin's books:
"It is not always our duty to marry; but it is
always our duty to abide by right; not to
purchase happiness by loss of honour; not to avoid
unweddedness by untruthfulness;" and, setting
my face steadily to meet the bleakness and
bareness of my lot, I rejected the proposal.

Barbara was terribly exasperated; and very
miserable we both were, until she accepted an
invitation to spend the Christmas with one of
her sisters, while I was left, with my old nurse,
to superintend the moving of the furniture. I
wished to linger in our old home till the last
moment; and I was glad to be alone on Christmas-
day in the deserted house, that, in solitude, I
might make my mental record of all its associations
and remembrances, before the place knew
me no more. So, on Christmas-eve, I wandered
through the empty rooms, not more empty than
my heart, which was being dismantled of its old
memories and newer but deeper tendernesses,
until I paused mechanically before the window,
whence I had often looked across to The
Holmes.

The air had been dense and murky all day,
with thickly falling snow; but the storm was
over, and the moonless sky bright with stars:
while the glistening snow reflected light enough
to show me where stood, like a dark mass against
the sky, the house of Martin Fraser. His room
was dark, as it had been for many nights before;
but old Mr. Fraser's window, which was nearer
to our house, emitted a brilliant light across the
white lawn. I was exhausted with over-work
and over-excitement, and leaning there, pressing
my heated cheeks against the frosty panes, I
rehearsed to myself all the incidents of my
intercourse with them; and there followed through
my mind picture after picture, dream within