“Through the darkest deeps of shame and misery. I will forsake thee only with death! Yet, oh! my husband, wherefore torture me thus?” “Because I would drive you from me,” he said, with violence the more exaggerated because unreal; “Go, woman, I love you not! Go! back to your home! Away from one you burthen and weary!” She looked at him for an instant doubtingly, but his brows were gathered into a heavy frown, and his eyes from beneath their long lashes flashed fire upon her. With a low moan she sunk fainting at his feet. “I have done my duty,” he murmured, as he raised her tenderly in his arms and kissed, again and again, her damp cheek and forehead, “she would not leave me—God is my witness there. Dear Mabel! my own sweet wife! hark how I unsay those cruel words.” She replied not, but raised her eyes to his, and in that one look of unutterable affection he read how futile had been his effort, how mighty a thing is love. A bell rang below, and at the same moment a footstep was heard in the passage, and a child sprung into the room, and to Mabel’s side. “I must go,” said Clifdon, starting. “Lock the door, and remain here until I return to take you home. Phil, stay with your mother.” “Let _me_ go,” said the boy, pressing to his side, and playing with the silver fringe of his tunic. “Let me see you ride White Fleeta once more around the ring—only once. Ah, mamma, it is so beautiful!” “No, no!” said Clifdon, impatiently. “It is no place for you. Come, come, I must go.” “Bring me down, then, where Mark is on the swing,” persisted the little one, coaxingly. “Let me see Mark swing.” A dark cloud swept over his father’s face, and extricating his dress with a smothered imprecation, he turned toward the door. “Lend me your knife, then,” said Philip, springing forward and again grasping his dress; and throwing it hastily to the petitioner, Clifdon hurried down stairs. He flung open the door of an apartment in the lower passage, and striding through without a glance at the gayly-bedizened throng there assembled, led forward a powerful white mare that stood saddled and bridled, and appeared to busy himself with its glittering trappings. “How now, Captain Ned, gallant Captain Ned,” said one, advancing from the group with a jeering smile and a grotesque bow. “I looked to White Fleeta myself, and you are pulling to pieces my work without mercy.” “Her throat-latch is too tight,” said Clifdon, bending over the animal till the long plumes of his cap swept its glossy mane. But the clown, for such was the post the first speaker held in the company, pressed yet closer, and attempted to touch the small ears that were now laid angrily back. “You fret her,” said Clifdon, impatiently; “stand aside.” The man winced in affected terror, and springing back, crouched, panting and fanning himself with his large hat, twisting his features meanwhile into a grimace that elicited shouts of laughter from his companions.