They crowded around her, and Ralph Holt, with his strong arms, carried the fragile, drooping figure into the house. They laid her upon the little couch, and drew the curling rings of dark hair back from her white face. Mrs. Thorne wept aloud, crying out for her pretty Dora, her poor, unhappy child. The two men stood watching her with grave, sad eyes. Ralph clenched his hand as he gazed upon her, the wreck of the simple, gentle girl he had loved so dearly. "If he has wronged her," he said to Stephen Thorne, "if he has broken her heart, and sent her home to die, let him beware!" "I knew it would never prosper," groaned her father; "such marriages never do." When Dora opened her eyes, and saw the three anxious faces around her, for a moment she was bewildered. They knew when the torture of memory returned to her, for she clasped her hands with a low moan. "Dora," said her mother, "what has happened? Trust us, dear child--we are your best friends. Where is your husband? And why have you left him?" "Because he has grown tired of me," she cried, with passion and anger flaming again in her white, worn face. "I did something he thought wrong, and he prayed to Heaven to pardon him for making me his wife." "What did you do?" asked her father, anxiously. "Nothing that I thought wrong," she replied. "Ask me no questions, father. I would rather die any death than return to him or see him again. Yet do not think evil of him. It was all a mistake. I could not think his thoughts or live his life--we were quite different, and very unhappy. He never wishes to see me again, and I will suffer anything rather than see him." The farmer and his wife looked at each other in silent dismay. This proud, angry woman and her passionate words frightened them. Could it be their Dora, who had ever been sunshine and music to them? "If you do not like to take me home, father," she said, in a hard voice, "I can go elsewhere; nothing can surprise or grieve me now." But kindly Mrs. Thorne had drawn the tired head to her. "Do you not know, child," she said, gently, "that a mother's love never fails?" Ralph had raised the little one in his arms, and was looking with wondering admiration at the proud, beautiful face of the little Beatrice, and the fair loveliness of Lillian. The children looked with frank, fearless eyes into his plain, honest face. "This one with dark hair has the real Earle face," said Stephen Thorne, proudly; "that is just my lord's look--proud and quiet. And the little Lillian is something like Dora, when she was quite a child." "Never say that!" cried the young mother. "Let them grow like any one else, but never like me!"