"I am not!" I cry, suddenly waking from my unnatural apathy, and bursting into bitter tears, the first I have shed to-day. As the whole horrible truth comes home to me, I rise impulsively and fling myself into my husband's arms--for my husband he has been for six long months. "I do love you, 'Duke--'Duke; but, oh! what can I do? What words can I use to tell you all I feel? I am young, and silly, and ridiculous in many ways, I know; but yet there is something within me I dare not disobey--something that makes me know the life you propose would be a life of sin, one on which no blessing could fall. Help me, therefore, to do the right, and do not make my despair greater than it is." He is silent, as he holds me clasped passionately to his breast. "We must part," I go on, more steadily. "I must leave you: but, oh, Duke, do not send me home. I could not go there." I shudder violently in his embrace at the bare thought of such a home-coming. How could I summon courage to meet all the whispers, the suppressed looks, the very kindnesses, that day by day I should see? "And here I could not stay, either," I sob, mournfully: "memory would kill me. 'Duke, where shall I go? Send me, you--somewhere." I wait for his answer with my head pillowed on his chest. I wait a long time. Whatever struggle is going on within him takes place silently. He makes no sign of agony; he does not move; his very heart, on which I lean, has almost ceased to beat. At length he speaks, and as the words cross his lips I know that he has conquered, but at the expense of youth and joy and hope. "There is Hazelton," he says; "it is a pretty place. It was my mother's. Will you go there? And---" "Yes, I will go there," I answer, brokenly. "What servants will you take with you?" he asks me, presently, in a dull, subdued way; all impatience and passion have died within him. "I will take none," I reply, "not one from this place. You must go to Hazelton and get me a few from the neighborhood round it--just three or four, who will know nothing of me, and seek to know nothing." "Oh, my darling, at least take your own maid with you, who has known you all your life. And Tynon, he is an old and valued servant; he will watch over you, and take care of you." "I will not be watched," I say, pettishly; "and I detest being taken care of. I am not ill. Even when a heart is sick unto death, there is no cure for it. And I would not have Tynon on any account. Every time I met his eyes I would know what he was thinking about. I would read pity in every glance and gesture, and I will not be made more wretched than I am by sympathy." "Then take Martha. You know how attached to you she is.---" "No; I will have no one to remind me of the old life. Do not urge me, 'Duke. Give me my own way in this. Believe me, if you do, I shall have a far better chance of--peace." "I wish, for your sake, I was dead," says 'Duke, hoarsely. At this I begin to cry again, weakly. I am almost worn out.