“She loved me once,” he thought, “and my hold upon her ought to be stronger now than ever it was. I have quires of schoolgirl letters filled with protestations of eternal constancy and reliance in a bright future waiting for us somewhere in the cloudy distance of our lives. And now the happy future is ours, my Maude; you are free and you are rich; so we can afford to build the castle of our dreams, and live in it very respectably.” Riding slowly homeward through the crowded streets, Mr. Lowther found it very difficult to shut out of his mind the picture of a burning ship, and the image of the man whom he had called his friend, prominent amidst a wild night-scene of death and horror. “I’m glad I had nothing to do with the fellow’s going in that vessel,” thought Mr. Lowther, as he tried to shake off the uncomfortable feeling which oppressed him. “_I_ had no hand in his mad freak of bolting off to Buenos Ayres; so I needn’t worry myself about the business. If he had lived to get there safely, I dare say he’d have been finished off by fever or small-pox.” Nearly a week elapsed before Harcourt Lowther approached the woman who had once been his plighted wife, and who was now free to renew her broken vows as speedily as common decency would allow her to accept the addresses of a second husband. The schemer wanted to be sure of his triumph. One interview with Maude, one look in her face, would be enough to tell him whether his hold on her was undiminished, whether his future happiness was secure. Assured of this, he would be contented to stand apart until the usages of society would permit him to take his place by her side as her acknowledged suitor. But he was eager to be quite sure of his position. A nervous restlessness that was foreign to his temperament had come upon him since the tidings of the _Kingfisher’s_ destruction had reached his ears; and he could not endure anything like uncertainty or suspense. He called at Stuccoville one morning. He was told that Mrs. Tredethlyn would see no one; but that Miss Desmond was at home, and would receive him, if he pleased. He did please; and was ushered into the morning-room, where Julia sat writing at a little table near the window. There was a door opening from Mrs. Tredethlyn’s dressing-room into this morning-room; and as Harcourt entered at one door, a pale wan creature in black appeared at the other. It was Maude--so changed that a sudden pang shot through the schemer’s heart as he looked at her; a sudden pang that must have been remorse, but which gave place immediately to a feeling of jealous anger. Was the loss of her husband so deep a sorrow that it should change her like this? She had seen the visitor, and was drawing back, when he ran to her and seized her hand. “Maude!” he cried, passionately, “I must speak to you. Surely you are not going to treat _me_ like a stranger.”