She would have questioned me of him I think, had not an approaching footstep caught our ear, sending a crimson flush to Cora’s hitherto marble cheek, and producing on me a most unpleasant sensation, for I knew that the gray-haired man now within a few paces of us, was he who called that young creature his wife. Golden was the chain by which he had bound her, and every link was set with diamonds and costly stones, but it had rusted and eaten to her very heart’s core, for the most precious gem of all was missing from that chain—love for her husband, who, fortunately for his own peace of mind, was too conceited to dream how little she cared for him. He was not handsome, and still many would have called him a fine looking, middle-aged man, though there was something disagreeable in his thin, compressed lips and intensely black eyes—the one betokening a violent temper, and the other an indomitable will. To me he was exceedingly polite—rather too much so for my perfect ease, while toward Cora he tried to be very affectionate. Seating himself at her side, and throwing his arm around her, he called her a ‘little truant,’ and asked ‘why she had run away from him?’ Half pettishly she answered, ‘because I like sometimes to be alone,’ then, rising up and turning toward me she asked if ‘the water still ran over the old mill dam in the west woods just as it used to do,’ saying if it did, she wished to see it. ‘You can’t go,’ she continued, addressing her husband, ‘for it is more than a mile, over fences and plowed fields.’ This was sufficient, for Mr. Douglass was very fastidious in all matters pertaining to his dress, and had no fancy for soiling his white pants, or patent leathers. So Cora and I set off together, while he walked slowly back to the village. Scarcely was he out of sight, however, when seating herself beneath a tree, and throwing herself flat upon the ground, Cora announced her intention of not going any further. ‘I only wished to be alone. I breathe so much better,’ she said, and when I looked inquiringly at her, she continued, ‘never marry a man for his wealth, Lottie, unless you wish to become as hard, as wicked and unhappy as I am. John Douglass is worth more than half a million, and yet I would give it all if I were the same little girl who, six years ago, waded with you through the snowdrifts to school on that stormy day. Do you remember what we played that noon and my foolish remark that I would marry for money and diamonds! Woe is me, I’ve won them both!’ and her tears fell fast on the sparkling gems which covered her slender fingers. Just then I saw in the distance a young man whom I knew to be Walter Beaumont. He seemed to be approaching us, and when Cora became aware of that, she started up and grasping my arm, hurried away, saying, as she cast backward a fearful glance, ‘I would rather die than meet him now. I am not prepared.’