And then he went on his knees beside her and prayed her to grant him this one boon; he poured out a flood of feverish words, hardly pausing to think; he tried to paint an alluring picture of their life in the future: they would leave Camberwell, he said; she should go where she liked if she would but listen to reason; it would ruin him in his profession, he pleaded, if she persisted in returning to the stage. As he talked the pretty face grew harder and older. Bella had made up her mind, and the man beside her had not the faintest power to sway her by his reproaches or entreaties. And then he stumbled to his feet and stood waiting for his answer. It came at last, clear and cold, falling like pellets of ice upon his impatient fervour. "The thing is done now, and all the talking in the world will not alter it." "And that is your last word to me--your husband?" Finding she did not speak, he walked across the floor, turning at the door, hoping against hope, but she lay back as still as if she were dead. When he had gone, Bella opened her eyes and held up her hand curiously. It was wet with--what?--tears. Her eyes were bright and dry. For a moment something of the old feeling swept over her. Poor Jack! She half rose, then sank back again. It was too late, she was thinking; as if it were ever too late to make amends, to atone, while we have still breath and life! "It is all for the best, anyhow," she murmured after awhile, and when philosophy is well to the fore, love hides its diminished head. CHAPTER IV.