“I know all, John--Mr. Dinsmore,” she murmured, “and I pity you from the depths of my heart. If I could give my life to bring her back to you, if you love her, I would gladly do it. And yet, she’s not worthy of such terrible grief as you are enduring.” Alas! in that hour of his bitter woe, how sweet was Queenie’s sympathy, which was indeed balm to his wounded, bleeding heart. CHAPTER XLIII. THE LOVE THAT WILL NOT DIE. “Oh, answer, love, my pleading! The precious moments pass; And I long these waters o’er May come no more, alas! Ah, while to-night is left us, It should not fly in vain. Come forth this once, lest fate decrees We never meet again! I wait, my heart’s adored one, Beneath the moon’s bright beams. Come--come, it is the hour that brings The time for lovers’ dreams!” In after years, when John Dinsmore looked back at that moment, it always seemed like a memory of a hideous nightmare, standing there with Jess’ letter in his shaking hand; the letter in which she told him that she, his wife, had eloped with a former lover. In that hour the sympathy of Queenie seemed like balm to his bleeding heart. “Mr. Dinsmore,” she said, in that sweet, smooth, silvery voice of hers, that had always had the power to thrill him to the heart’s core, “my heart is bleeding for you. What can I say, what can I do to comfort you?” He sank into the nearest seat, covering his face with his shaking hands. Queenie advanced a step nearer, and her soft, white hands, cool and white as lily leaves, fell on his bowed head lightly. “I know, I can understand how deeply your pride is wounded,” she went on, hurriedly. “But instead of wasting one thought over her, you should be rejoicing at getting rid of her so easily--remembering that her action sets you free from the bond which galled you, leaves you free to woo and wed one whom you can love. Do you not realize it? “She was never a fit companion for you,” continued Queenie, eagerly; “you knew that. You should never have expected anything else from a girl such as she was--a wild, gypsyish creature, without even a name to face the world with. Of course she came from a source where her parents dared not own her, and one should not be surprised that she has developed evil tendencies; it is easy to surmise that they are bred in the bone, and she acted upon them at the first opportunity which presented. I predict that she will reach the lowest level that such a low-born creature----” The sentence never was finished. With a bound John Dinsmore sprang to his feet, his face white as death, his eyes blazing like coals of fire. “Stop, madam!” he cried, in a hoarse voice. “Not another word, I command you. Remember it is my wife whom you are reviling so cruelly!” and he towered before her, the incarnation of cold, stern, haughty anger. For a moment only Queenie loses her self-possession, the next instant her face is wreathed in a cruel sneer, as she answers, defiantly: