She made no reply, and her husband, thinking she had relapsed into one of her little fits of temper, sighed heavily and bade her good night. Poor, foolish, jealous heart--she never lay down to rest! She had quite resolved she would go and meet the husband who was tired of her and the woman who lured him away. She would listen to all they had to say, and then confront them. No thought of the dishonor of such a proceeding struck her. Poor Dora was not gifted with great refinement of feeling--she looked upon the step she contemplated rather as a triumph over an enemy than a degradation to herself. She knew the place in the grounds where they should be sure to meet. Miss Charteris called it her bower; it was a thick cluster of trees under the shade of which stood a pretty, rustic seat; and Dora thought that, if she placed herself behind the trees, she would be able to hear all unseen. Before Ronald partook of breakfast, Dora had quitted the house on her foolish errand. She knew the way to the house and the entrance to the garden. She had no fear; even were she discovered there, no one could surmise more than that she was resting on her way to the house. She crouched behind the trees and waited. It was wrong, weak, and wicked; but there was something so pitiful in the white face full of anguish, that one would hardly know whether to pity or blame her. The sunshine reached her, the birds were singing in the trees, the flowers were all blooming--she, in her sorrow and desolation, heeded nothing. At length she saw them--Valentine in her white morning dress, her beautiful face full of deep, earnest emotion, and Ronald by her side. As she surmised, they walked straight to the trees, and Valentine signed to Ronald to take a seat by her side. Sweetly and clearly every word she uttered sounded to Ronald, but they fell like drops of molten lead on the jealous heart of Ronald's wife. "You must try," Valentine was saying; "I used to think you would be a hero. You are proving yourself a very weak and erring man." Dora could not distinguish Ronald's words so plainly; he said something about life and its mistakes. "I told you once," said Valentine, "that the man who could endure so bravely the consequences of his own actions was a true hero. Grant the worst--that you have made a mistake. You must make the best you can of it, and you are not doing that now." "No," he said gravely. "I am very unhappy--more so than you can imagine, Valentine. Life seems to have lost all its charms for me. I had such great hopes once, but they are all dead now." "You are too young to say that," she replied; "a little courage, a little patience, and all will be well. If it comforts you to know that my warmest, deepest sympathy is with you--" Valentine Charteris never finished her sentence; a pale, angry face and dark, gleaming eyes full of passion suddenly flashed before her.