Convulsed for a moment by the turbulent rush of fury that whirled through him, he suddenly controlled himself with a strong effort, and leaning his burning head upon his hands, thought on. How would her wiles prosper on Harrington? Ha! it was joy to think that she would be baffled there! She does not know that he loves Muriel; she will not know it; she will spin her seductive web; she will try every charm, and fail, and fail—and know not why she fails! For he loves Muriel—yes, he loves Muriel. But that thought brought another to the mind of Wentworth. In vivid contrast with his own mean and little jealousy of his friend when he thought him his rival for the love of Emily, came Harrington’s selfless generosity to him whom he thought his rival for the love of Muriel. This, too, had led Harrington to attach himself in all their walks and meetings to Emily—he had stood aside, he had waived his claim to the contest for Muriel’s love, he had left the field clear and open, with every advantage to him. Brought to the full consciousness of this lofty magnanimity, alive now to his own selfish selfness, hot tears, wrung from him in the agony of his self-abasement, welled from his eyes. But this could be atoned for. To-morrow, yes, to-morrow, he would see Harrington—he would tell him all—he would confess his fault, and ask for pardon. This wrong could be undone—so easily; a little sacrifice of pride—that was all; but Emily—her wrong to him could never be undone—never, oh, never! A ruined heart, a ruined life, love scorned, self-respect crushed; oh, Emily, Emily, his wild thought wailed, loved, idolized, adored still, despite your cruel baseness, your heartless wrong, your life-long injury to me, how can I forget you, how can I forgive you, how can I blot out your image from my life, how be again as in the days of youth and love and hope now gone forever and forever! Weak, shaken, convulsed with passionate despair, he bowed his head upon his nerveless arms, weeping bitterly in silence, as the moon was going down. As the moon was going down, its pale light shone into the haunted shadow of a chamber, and on the lovely pallid face and sumptuous form of Emily, dimly projected in the perfumed dusk against the velvet of a cushioned chair, in which she lay reclining like a young empress doomed to die upon the morrow morn. Her eyes were closed; her head rested back almost in profile upon the velvet; and the pale and sculptural features, relieved by the unbound blackness of her hair, were like a dream of death. The white night-robe had fallen away, and clearly outlined against the glorious length of ebon tresses which sloped in thick profusion down behind her, bloomed the polished ivory of one peerless shoulder, melting within the crumpled tissue of the loose sleeve which covered her drooping arm. Still, but for the slow heaving of her bosom, she lay in pallid loveliness—a maiden queen of passional love, love-lorn, discrowned, abandoned and brought low.