Juliette Ives was walking along the mountain road just a few rods from the cottage, kicking up the dead leaves from the ground at every step, and frowning discontentedly. “It is almost two months since I came to this place, and it is as dreary as a prison. I hope we shall certainly get away this week, or I shall die of ennui,” she was muttering angrily to herself, when suddenly she came face to face with a man who was hurrying in the direction of the cottage--Norman Wylde. It was the first time he had seen Juliette since Finley’s sullen confession had convicted her of such a treacherous deed, and Norman’s brow grew dark at sight of the fair blond face, with its light-blue eyes, and pale golden tresses flying loosely in the wind under a picturesque little scarlet cap, for Juliette was always vain and coquettish, and even here in this secluded retreat, where she expected to see no one, paid particular attention to her personal appearance. But her charms were all unheeded by Norman Wylde, who lifted his hat with grave courtesy, and was about to pass by when she arrested him with a pleading cry: “Norman--Mr. Wylde!” He paused, but with an impatient gesture, and, coming close up to him, she said eagerly: “I cannot let pass this opportunity of clearing myself from the foul imputation cast upon me by that wicked wretch, Finley. Oh, Norman, I swear to you that I had nothing to do with his sin! I did not even know the man.” She never forgot how handsome and how scornful her lost lover looked as he fixed his splendid, piercing black eyes on her false face. Regarding her with supreme contempt, he answered: “Unfortunately for your denial, Miss Ives, Finley had written proofs in his possession that proved your guilt clearly.” “I deny it in spite of all his proofs,” she cried desperately, but, smiling scornfully still, he answered: “As you please, Miss Ives; but permit me to pass. I am anxious to meet my wife!” “You have no wife!” she exclaimed, with such spiteful yet earnest emphasis that he paused again, and said: “Deny it as you will; but I have proved to the world’s satisfaction that Pansy Laurens is my wife, and a week ago, when Mr. Finley recovered from the long stupor and loss of memory that followed upon his fall, he told me my wife still lived, in the person of Mrs. Falconer. I wondered why she had not come at once to me on learning that she was truly my wife. But, guessing that it was owing to her sensitive, retiring nature, I set myself to work to learn her whereabouts. I learned that she had separated from Colonel Falconer, and was living here in strict retirement. I hurried here at once.” “In spite of all that, I repeat my assertion: You have no wife!” answered Juliette, with savage emphasis and barbarous delight in the torture she was inflicting on his heart. “My Heaven!” he cried, shuddering. “You do not mean to tell me that Pansy is dead!”