"I know it well," replied Rosamond; "I remember too that it was to give a home to Eugenia you first consented to bind yourself by marriage vows. That home may still be hers. I am calm now, Cecil--you see I can speak calmly. The certainty of a misfortune gives the spirit and the power of endurance. Those flowers are trifles in themselves, but they contain a world of meaning." "These worthless flowers!" exclaimed Cecil, trampling them under his feet till their bright leaves lay a soiled and undistinguishable mass--"and have these raised the whirlwind of jealous passion? These fading playthings, left for a moment in another's keeping, accidentally left, to be immediately reclaimed!" "You gave them to her--with her own lips she told me--rapture sparkling in her eyes." "It was all a misunderstanding--an innocent mistake. Oh, Rosamond! for a trifle like this you could forget all my faith and affection, every feeling which should be sacred in your eyes--forget your woman's gentleness, and utter words which seem branded in my heart and brain in burning and indelible characters. I dare not go on. I shall say what I may bitterly repent. I wish you no punishment greater than your own reflections." Rosamond listened to his retreating footsteps, she heard the outer door heavily close, and the sound fell on her ear like the first fall of the damp clods on the coffin, the signal of mortal separation. She remained pale as a statue, gazing on the withering flowers, counting the quick beatings of her lonely heart, believing herself doomed to a widowhood more cruel than that the grave creates. Cecil's simple explanation, stamped with the dignity of truth, had roused her from the delirium of passion, and seeing her conduct in its true light, she shuddered at the review. Her head ached to agony--one moment she shivered with cold, the next the blood in her veins seemed changed to molten lead. "I feel very strangely," thought she--"perhaps I am going to die, and when I am dead, he will pity and forgive me." She had barely strength to seek her own chamber, where, throwing herself on the bed, she lay till the shades of night darkened around her, conscious of but one wish, that her bed might prove her grave, and Cecil, melted by her early fate, might shed one tear of forgiveness over the icy lips that never more could open to offend. The bell rang for supper--she heeded not the summons. A servant came to tell her that Mr. Dormer was below. Her heart bounded, but she remained immovable. Again the servant came. "Shall I make tea for Mr. Dormer?" she asked. "Miss Eugenia is gone out." Rosamond started up, and leaned on her elbow. "Gone!" repeated she, wildly--"when? where?" "I don't know, ma'am," replied the girl; "she put on her bonnet and shawl an hour ago and went out through the back gate." "Does Mr. Dormer know it?" asked Rosamond faintly.