"What charming wifely conduct!" says Sir Mark, with a sneer; "not only do you confide to him all your own little affairs, but you are ready also at a moment's notice to forgive him any peccadilloes of which he has been guilty." I feel 'Duke quiver with rage, but laying a warning pressure on his arm, I succeed in restraining him. "He has been guilty of none," I cry, indignantly. "He never cared for any one but me, as you well know." Sir Mark looks down, and smiles meaningly; I redden with anger. "Why are you not gone?" I ask, inhospitably; "you promised you would leave early this morning." "Grant me a little grace, Mrs. Carrington. Had I had time, I might, indeed, have ordered a special train, but, as matters stand, I am compelled to be your guest until one be allowed by the authorities to start. But for your entrance here just now, which I did not anticipate, I would not have troubled you by my presence again. However, it is the last time you shall be so annoyed. Perhaps you will bid me good-bye, and grant me your forgiveness before I go. You at least should find it easy to pardon, as it was my unfortunate and undue admiration for yourself caused me to err." His tone is light and mocking, there is even a half smile upon his lips. He treats Marmaduke's presence as though he were utterly unaware of it. Yet still something beneath his sneering manner makes me know he does repent, either his false step, or its consequences. It is with amazement I discover I bear him no ill-will Indeed, I might almost be said to feel sorrow for him at this present moment. I shall be intensely relieved and glad when he is no longer before me; but he has been kind and pleasant to me, in many ways, during these past two months, and I forgive him. I put my hand in his, and say "good-bye," gently. He holds it tightly for an instant, then drops it. "Good-bye, Carrington," he says, coolly: "I hope when next we meet time will have softened your resentment." He Moves towards the door with his usual careless graceful step. "And I hope," says 'Duke, in a voice clear and quiet, yet full of suppressed passion, "that the day we meet again is far distant. I have no desire to renew acquaintance in the future with a man who has so basely abused the rights of friendship and hospitality. You have chosen to act the part of a scoundrel. Keep to it, therefore, and avoid the society of honest men. For myself, I shall endeavor to forget I ever knew any one so contemptible." "Take care," says Sir Mark, in a low, fierce tone. "Don't try me too far, '_Honest_ men!' Remember one thing, Carrington: you owe me something for my forbearance." For a full minute the two men glare at each other, then the door is flung open, and Mark is gone. "What did he mean by that?" ask I, frightened and tearful. "What was that he said about forbearance? Tell me, 'Duke." Marmaduke's face is white as death.