Gradually the soft spring air had yielded to the power that always wins, and a blistering heat had fallen on the city, the fierce rays beating down upon the asphalt streets which threw them back defiantly until the very air palpitated with the conflict. Then even the asphalt gave it up, and lay a sodden mass--no longer master of its fate, but meekly yielding to the impress of every grinding heel. The leaves hung motionless, the air was dead, and one remembered, apprehensively, that some day the earth would melt with fervent heat, and wondered, gasping, if that time were now. Then having proved his power, old Sol relaxed his grasp, and turned away his face, and men began to hope again, and to remind one another, as the breeze sprang up, of the promise given with the bow that "While the earth remaineth ... cold and heat, and summer and winter ... shall not cease." Then autumn flung her gorgeous banners to the breeze, and the Indians kindled their campfires in the West, and shouting children ploughed the streets where "The yellow poplar leaves came down And like a carpet lay." Thus passed Nature's shifting panorama which waits no man's pleasure, stops for none, but brings all to an end at last. To Margaret they had been months of sore trial,--of hope deferred and the suspense that kills,--the rising up each day to meet the mute sympathy of real friends, and the thin-veiled curiosity of those called friends by courtesy, who made her rage within herself and left her powerless to resent. Then there was that other sort who came to her, prating of sympathy, but telling her always of what others said. The words of a talebearer are as wounds; these went down into the innermost parts of Margaret's soul. But through it all she carried herself with a dignity and poise that enforced respect and in time silenced even gossip. To all these invitations to confidence she made no response. She could not stop people's tongues, but she would give them no occasion to wag, by any word of hers. This thing had been between her and her husband; there it should remain. So when Marie Van Dorn came, saying effusively, "You poor child, I have heard, and came to you as soon as the nurse would let me. You can trust me, my dear!" Margaret had replied, quietly: "Thank you. You are very kind to come to see me. I shall be a good deal housed for a while, and rather lonely in Mr. De Jarnette's absence. What do you hear from your aunt?" And Marie had made but a short call. To Judge Kirtley, who had come as soon as she could see him, she had said, her eyes heavy with unshed tears, "I would trust you beyond any living soul. But this is not a thing about which even you could help me. I need not tell you there is something wrong--you know that. It may come right--I can not tell. If it does, I should be sorry I had talked. If it does not, the case would not be helped by words. I cannot take the world into my confidence. Do you blame me?"