Her jewels were spread out on the toilet-table; perhaps the faithful maid thought the sight of them would tempt her mistress to take them. But she shivered as the gorgeous, shining things glittered in the candle-light. Every one of them had meant something in the days when love was young; each stone held its separate insult now. She put them back in her jewel-case with averted face and ungentle hands. Diamonds and pearls, opals and beryls, not one would she keep; and her wedding-ring fell with a clink on the mass. Andria Heathcote had nothing to do with the baubles Andria Erle had loved. She stood up straight and fair as Louise dressed her in a plain black gown. For three months she had been dreading this day, fearing heavily to note the small signs of its approach; but now that it was here she felt curiously calm. “Tell James to call a cab,” she said, “and this is for you! You are a kind girl, Louise, and I have liked you.” She held out a long gold chain set with pearls. It was her own, not his; she had a right to give it away. But the maid was crying. “Don’t cry, child, for me,” she said steadily, “and take care of the jewels till Mr. Travers, the agent, comes to-morrow. He will give you a receipt for them, and you must send it to Mr. Erle at the club.” “But you’ll come back, madam?” cried Louise, sobbing. “No. Oh! my poor Louise, cheer up. There are better mistresses than I’ve been.” “No, no!” said the girl passionately, “none. What haven’t you done for me and my mother?” The French girl would have kissed Andria’s hand, but with a queer feeling of superstition her mistress stooped and kissed her cheek. It was something to have a creature to say farewell to; there would be none to greet her home. “Get the cab,” she repeated. And when the girl was gone she went to her writing-table. There was a photograph there and she stared at it. Why had she loved him? He was just a long-legged, haggard, gentlemanly-looking man, like scores of others, yet she had sold her soul for him. Her hand was on the picture to put it in the fire, but a sudden thought flamed in her eyes and stayed her hand. On the back of it was written: “Raimond to Andria; on their wedding-day.” She would keep it! The world was thick, they might never meet; but if they did that writing might confound his dearest plans. She slipped the photograph into her pocket and went down-stairs. The French girl, with a pang at her heart, watched her get into the cab and drive away. CHAPTER V. HER EVIL GENIUS. The train stopped with a jerk and a long jolting jar that startled all the passengers, and flung a solitary traveler from her seat in a second-class carriage.