Tears rose to her eyes; it was with difficulty she kept them from falling. “I cannot become your wife while this cloud overhangs Arthur. It would not be right.” “You say you believe in his innocence,” was the reply of Mr. Yorke. “I do. But the world does not. William,” she continued, placing her hand in his, while the tears rained freely down her face, “let us say farewell now.” He drew her closer to him. “Explain this mystery, Constance. Why are you not open with me? What has come between us?” “I cannot explain,” she sobbed. “There is nothing for us but to part.” “We will not part. Why should we, when you say Arthur is innocent, and I believe him to be so? Constance, my darling, what is this grief?” What were the words but a tacit admission that, if Arthur were not innocent, they should part? Constance so interpreted them. Had any additional weight been needed to strengthen her resolution, this would have supplied it. “Farewell! farewell, William! To remain with you is only prolonging the pain of parting.” That her resolution to part was firm, he saw. It was his turn to be angry now. A slight touch of the haughty Yorke temper was in him, and there were times when it peeped out. He folded his arms, and the flush left his countenance. “I cannot understand you, Constance. I cannot fathom your motive, or why you are doing this; unless it be that you never cared for me.” “I have cared for you as I never cared for any one; as I shall never care for another. To part with you will be like parting with life.” “Then why speak of it? Be my wife, Constance; be my wife!” “No, it might bring you disgrace,” she hysterically answered; “and, that, you shall never encounter through me. Do not keep me, William; my resolution is irrevocable.” Sobbing as though her heart would break, she turned from him. Mr. Yorke followed her indoors. In the hall stood Mrs. Channing. Constance turned aside, anywhere, to hide her face from her mother’s eye. Mrs. Channing did not particularly observe her, and turned to accost Mr. Yorke. An angry frown was on his brow, an angry weight on his spirit. Constance’s words and course of action had now fully impressed him with the belief that Arthur was guilty; that she knew him to be so; and the proud Yorke blood within him whispered that it was _well_ so to part. But he had loved her with a deep and enduring love, and his heart ached bitterly. “Will you come in and lend us your help in the discussion?” Mrs. Channing said to him, with a smile. “We are carving out the plan for our journey.” He bowed, and followed her into the sitting-room. He did not speak of what had just occurred, leaving that to Constance, if she should choose to give an explanation. It was not Mr. Yorke’s place to say, “Constance has given me up. She has impressed me with the conviction that Arthur is guilty, and she says she will not bring disgrace upon me.” No, certainly; he could not tell them that.