propriety--you have sent for me to answer for my offenses against you. With far more reason I might summon you--if you were not a woman and therefore above laws of justice and humanity--to account for yours against me.” Aubrey Cooke stood as erect as Harry himself could have done as he spoke, with feeling and with fire, these words to the woman before him. She had indeed been innocent of the depth of the emotions she had stirred in this man with the expressionless face and hard voice. She had expected to have some difficulty in arguing him into recognizing the fact that her conduct toward him had been dictated by the best possible motives, and that any apparent injustice she had done him was the result of circumstances; but she had not imagined for an instant that he would turn upon her with reproaches so bitter and so well founded that she would be left without a word in answer. Yet it was so; and Annie bent her head for very shame as the torrent of his passionate words passed over her, and she felt that she was without a defense. Then, seeing her so broken and crushed before him, she who had always held herself so proudly, Aubrey relented--for he loved her still--and, as he saw the tears falling slowly from her downcast eyes on to her clasped hands, he fell upon his knees beside her, and from the stern judge became once more the humble suppliant. “Annie, Annie, never mind what I have said! I did not want to be harsh, only to let you know--what I ought to have kept from you, I suppose.” “You said I was wicked,” sobbed Annie, woman-like, seizing the advantage which his remorse at having caused her tears gave her. “Yes, I know--I was in a passion--I didn’t mean it, of course, Annie. You didn’t tell me you were married--because you thought it would hurt me, and you hated him, and wanted to forget his existence. Well, you were quite right; I could see at a glance that he was an ill-tempered brute, and that you were afraid of him.” “He is not ill-tempered,” flashed out Annie, with sudden fire. “And all that I am afraid of is that he won’t come back to me, that some one will tell him that I am happy without him, and that he will console himself before I can let him know it is untrue.” Aubrey was silent for some minutes. He detected in this speech the ring of genuine feeling; and anger and contempt for the woman before him, who seemed to him at that moment the incarnation of fickleness and deceit, overcame his love for her and raised him to his feet again. “I have no doubt he will wake sooner or later to a sense of what a precious thing he is neglecting in your love!” said he, in a biting voice. “Thank you,” returned Annie, brought to herself at once by this taunt. “I deserve every sneer you can cast at me; but you cannot make me regret that I have at last discovered the worth of a man who has suffered more at my hands than you have done without casting at me a single taunt.”