"No," in a changed, softened voice. "I cannot, indeed, insist, but I can plead--not for myself, Phyllis, but for you. I have put the case before you truthfully, and now entreat you to become my wife before the real reason for our separation gets abroad. I offer you my name alone. Once having put you in possession of that, I swear I will rid you of my presence forever if you wish it. Will that content you? Why should the idea be so repugnant to you? unless, indeed---" Here he pauses. A deep-red passionate flush suffuses his face. Placing his hands heavily upon my shoulders he once more compels me to meet his eyes. "Unless, indeed, you wish to hold yourself free for another? If I thought that if during my absence you had seen any one else, who---" "Oh, yes!" I interrupt, bitterly; "that is so likely! My married life has been so pleasant--such a prosperous one that doubtless I am in a hurry to try it again. No; believe me, I have fixed my affections on no one during your absence. You are quite safe there. I am as heart-whole as when you left me. I feel no wild desire to throw myself into the arms of any man." He draws a long, deep breath. "I would kill you," he says, slowly, "if for a moment I doubted your truth." "I am hardly worth the killing," return I, with a little, faint, chill smile, looking upon my wasted hands and fragile figure as it reflects itself in an opposite mirror. "Why do you want me so much? I have always been more of a torment to you than a joy, and now I have lost even those few poor little charms I may once have thought I possessed. Ice itself cannot be colder than the woman you wish for the second time to make your own. Why will you not take the chance of escape I offer?" He makes a movement of impatience. "You are unwise in letting it slip. What can you see in me to love?" "Just what I always saw in you to love. I cannot change. To me, you are my wife the most precious thing on earth. I will not give you up." "And you saw her lying dead?" I say, irrelevantly. "Yes. Have I not told you so already? Why name her to me?" "Poor soul! How strange she must have looked," I say, dreamily, "lying there with those restless, burning eyes forever closed--so cold, so white, so still. And you looked down upon her. You were glad to see her there," with a shudder. "You rejoiced that death had stepped in to conquer her and free you of a chain that dragged. It is a dreadful picture." "A very natural one, I think. Glad? Yes I was glad I was more than that: I was deeply thankful to see her there, powerless to work her wicked will or pollute the world again. I think--I hope I forgave her; but I was glad to see her dead." There is a pause. Weary of standing, I sink into a chair. I push back my hair from my forehead, which has begun to throb a good deal, and then let my hands fall listlessly into my lap.