"Ah," exclaimed Indiana, "Glen did come, then?" "At your invitation," said Thurston, quickly. "What of it? He would not have locked me out—insulted me. Oh, I’m sorry I ever married you!" Thurston gave a suppressed cry of pain. "I mean it. I have never known a harsh word in my life. You—to treat me like this! I won’t stand it, I tell you!" Losing all control, she took up a paper-cutter and snapped it in pieces in her rage. "I hate you—standing there like ice! I hate—" Thurston looked down into her face with an expression of horror and rushed from the room, slamming the door. "I—I—what have I said? I didn’t mean it, Thurston," murmured Indiana, with a sudden revulsion of feeling. She stretched out her hands piteously, helpless and groping, like a frightened child. "Thurston, I didn’t mean it. There was a rush of red before my eyes—it blinded me." She sank on her knees with a feeling of terror at the remembrance. "Thurston, I’m afraid," she sobbed, shudderingly. "Don’t leave me here with myself." She struggled to her feet, trembling from head to foot. "Thurston, I’m sorry—forgive me—I love you—I—" She fell blindly against the door, then sank to the ground, shaking with sobs. When the storm passed, her exhaustion was so great she felt powerless to mount the stairs to her room, and lay there on the floor, beside the door, throughout the night. Though stiff with cold, her moral distress would scarcely permit her to notice this physical discomfort. She was clutched tightly in the grasp of a terrible dread. That this sudden tidal wave of love had rushed over her heart too late. And if this proved true, she felt she would no longer have the courage to live. The fact had so suddenly awakened in her consciousness, as a flower might spring at once into full and perfect bloom, that her husband’s love alone gave life significance. She fell, at intervals, from pure exhaustion, into a short, troubled sleep, awakening always with a remembrance of Thurston’s horrified face as he rushed from the room, closing the door, as though he would shut her forever out of his life. When daylight came, she rose with an effort and threw herself upon the lounge. *CHAPTER XIX.* *"And as he Wove he heard Singing."* Jennings, entering the library at an early hour that morning, started when he saw his little mistress lying there, still in her gown of the night before, one arm hanging listlessly down, her face buried in the pillows. The light was still burning in the lamp on the table. "Yer little leddyship," said Jennings, softly, bending over her. She stirred and raised her head. "I wasn’t asleep, Jennings," she answered, in a pathetic voice. She looked like a little, pale wraith, in her white, crushed, tulle gown, a fragment of a cloud blown by chance into the old, gloomy room. "You left this on the doorstep, yer little leddyship." He held her long, white wrap over his arm.