"You would not marry him," exclaimed Elizabeth, suddenly. "You--you--you----" "You don't know anything about it. Let Tom and me alone. I think you are growing a cross old thing." "Oh, Elsie, do be serious for one moment." "Let me alone!" she repeated. "You are always spoiling my sunshine. I believe you hate me!" "Don't talk so wildly, Elsie. But you cannot blame me for being anxious about Tom's happiness." "And, pray, should I make him wretched if I married him?" she exclaimed defiantly. "You won't do that. You----" "I'll do what I please; and don't you meddle with me, just remember that!" The voice was sharp and unlike Elsie's usual tone, but she quickly resumed her childish manner, and added: "I'll be good--don't scold. There, I'm going now--good-bye!" She danced out of the room and through the house, and Elizabeth heard her voice on the lawn, calling to Tom, to know if the boat was ready. Elizabeth kept her seat, looking absently across the water. Presently she saw the little skiff shoot out from the shore, under the impetus of Tom's muscular arms, while Elsie leaned back in the stern, wrapped in a pale blue shawl, and reminding Elizabeth of the old German legend of the Lurlei. She sat there a long time, with her former mournful thoughts all trooping back, like ravens to a desolated nest. The gloom upon her spirits waxed deeper, and the chill that had begun during the past days to creep about her heart tightened and grew cold, as if it were changing to an icy band, which would freeze her pulses in its tightening clasp. She looked out through the sunshine, watching the light boat till it became a mere speck in the distance, and finally disappeared among the windings of the long curve of land which stretched out into the ocean. Thinking, thinking, always the same dreary round, till she grew so weary with the ceaseless anxiety, the constant necessity for plots and plans, the need of reflection, even, in slightest act, and, worse than all, the sleepless fear of discovery which hovered over her, asleep or awake, that it seemed sometimes that she could no longer uphold the burden, but must allow it to fall and crush her. The afternoon was passing, but the little boat had not yet appeared in sight again. There was no danger that Tom would think of fatigue while he could sit looking in the face of his syren, listening to her low, sweet songs; nor was there the slightest possibility of her ever remembering that the strongest muscles must at last feel a little need of relaxation. Just as long as it pleased her to float over the sunlit waters, carolling her pretty melodies or talking gay nonsense to Tom, and blinding him utterly with the wicked lightning of her eyes, she would think of nothing else.