“You will let me settle some money on you? I will be so glad to do something to show my gratitude!” she pleaded; but Mrs. de Vere gently declined the offer, and went back presently with the news that Camille would leave Verelands in a few hours. Norman received the news with icy calmness--calmness that filled his mother with wonder. She knew how deeply he had loved his beautiful bride, how patiently he had borne with her caprices and reproaches. Had love failed at last under her ceaseless exactions, or was this the calm of a terrible despair-- “Despair that spurns atonement’s power?” He made no comment on the news she brought. “I shall stay at the Hotel Française to-night,” he said. “In the morning I will come back to Verelands, and if you can get ready to go with me we will go to Virginia and leave Sweetheart with the Hintons. Then,” half bitterly, “the world will be all before us where to choose. But I think I shall go to New York, for I must find work now. I shall no longer be that ignoble thing--a man dependent on a rich wife.” The bitterness of the closing words gave her a passing glimpse into the pangs his pride had suffered in his marriage. She sighed, but did not reply. She had the bitter memory always with her that she had helped to forge his chains. Ah, if she only had it all to go over again, how changed all would be! But the glitter of gold had blinded her to all she should have known. She went about her duties in a dazed, miserable fashion, unable to see any light fringing the dark cloud that hung over Verelands. When Camille, deathly pale and wretched-looking, came to bid her farewell, she could not restrain her tears at the breaking up of their domestic life. “I am going abroad,” said Camille. “Finette goes with me. I had to take her back because she is devoted to my interests, and is the truest friend I have now. I will write to you, dear Mrs. de Vere, and you shall always know where I am, so that if Norman relents, he will always know where to find me.” Mrs. de Vere was sorry for the desolate creature, in spite of her glaring faults. She tried to impart some consolation to her, and if Camille knew how vain her hopes were, she made no sign. She kept up a faint pretense of clinging to hope. “And as for the child, my dear, I believe you were all wrong about that. Norman is going to send her away. There was another man saved from the wreck who wanted Sweetheart very much, and she will be sent to him,” said the elder lady, believing that this news would comfort Camille very much. It did, for she saw in it a concession to her prejudices, made by Norman even while he pretended to defy her. She had rendered it impossible for him to keep the child. She listened with silent exultation.