“No,” he replied; “I cannot, in truth, say that it has.” Her face flushed warmly. “Then, if I were you, I should be ashamed to say so. You are the first Alden who has found life empty, I should imagine.” “I did not say it was empty, Clarice; I merely say nothing in it interests me.” She knelt down by his side, and clasped her white hands round his arm. “You must unsay that, Ronald. There is one interest left--you love me. You cannot turn from me and say no. You could not be so cruel. Love must win love, and, my husband, I love you.” He made no reply, and she kissed his hands as they lay listless in her warm clasp. If he had told her the truth, it would have been that her love for him was one of his greatest burdens; but he had the grace to keep silent. “Will you give up Aldenmere for a time?” she asked. “Let us go abroad.” “No; I am tired of the Continent,” he replied. “And you do not care for the sea. London has no charm for you. Oh, Ronald, what can I do for you to make your life brighter?” He looked at her beautiful face, and hated himself with fierce loathing for the word that rose to his lips. It was “Die!” She could do nothing for him but that--die, and leave him free to marry his only love. Then quick, keen remorse seized him, and he kissed her white brow. “You are very patient with me, Clarice,” he said humbly, “and I do not deserve your love.” He wondered to himself at times if the old stories he had read of men being given over to the power of a demon were true. Could it be that he was so given over? Was this perverse demon of unhappy love sent to him as a scourge? He brooded over such thoughts and ideas until the wonder is he did not go mad. He did not meet Lady Hermione again. She was careful; and he had no wish to renew the terrible pain of parting. He dwelt upon one thought--she would come to him when he lay dying, and not before. So time passed, day after day finding him more gloomy, more wretched and unhappy. Then came the tragedy that startled all England--the murder of the beautiful and unfortunate Lady Clarice--the murder that was in itself a mystery, and remained one. After that Sir Ronald shut himself up in seclusion and retirement. Many people thought he would leave the scene of the tragedy, and go from Aldenmere, but he did not. He was the ghost of his former self, the wreck of the proud, handsome man, who but a few short years since, had been the bravest wooer in the countryside. People said he would never survive his wife’s death; that the shock of it would be fatal to him. Those who loved him best had no more cheerful prophesy than that he would in all probability linger in his gloomy seclusion a few months longer, then die. Even Kenelm Eyrle, who had never pardoned him for his marriage, who believed that he had deliberately won Clarice from him, relented now. It was no common grief that brought so proud a man low; no common sorrow that prostrated him.