She could not join in his mirth. Only so short a time ago its cause had been the tragedy of the world to her. She could hardly bring herself to admit even to herself that now, scarcely three weeks later, she cared as little for it as if it had never been. But her world had changed. How it had developed! There were new countries; strange peoples had been discovered; a marvelous scope of emotion had been evolved. Romance had unfolded its wondrous page. She had seen Poetry trim its pinions and wing its flight. She had lived a new life; she was a changeling. Where was her old self? Her fancied love for the young religionist, her wounded pride for his sake, her scorching, fiery compassion for her own--all had fled. She remembered herself in these emotions as if she were another being. She could hardly pity Owen Haines. If he did not care for the fleer of ridicule, why should she? For since--she had lived an enchanted life. “What will he want of you?” demanded Royce gravely. She faltered. She feared Tynes and his powers of argument. She dreaded, not being convinced, but the rigors of the contest. And if Owen Haines should, as a sacrifice to love, agree to relinquish his “praying fur the power,” she dreaded the renewal of their old status of “keepin’ comp’ny.” “He will want me ter take Owen Haines back.” “But you wouldn’t, Phemie, you wouldn’t?” urged Royce breathlessly. “He mought gin up prayin’ fur the power. I turned him off fur that,” she hesitated. Royce’s scheme was complete. All the Cove and the mountain regarded him as a dangler after Euphemia Sims. He could feign a hopeless jealousy. He could hold aloof for a time, and the old status would doubtless readjust itself with the ease and security imparted by habit. He had gone as far as he had ever planned. Now he could leave the rest to chance. But if the life here had afforded so arid a prospect heretofore, how could he contemplate it without Euphemia? His very speech no other creature could understand. He felt that he would be as isolated as if he were on a desert island, and he had a fiery impatience of time,--the years that were coming seemed such long years. He had never been more in earnest in his life, as he looked down into her beautiful illumined face. “But you will not, Euphemia,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist. “You don’t love him.” Beyond a start, half surprise and half coyness, she had not moved. “Tell me--you care nothing for him?” “Not now,” she faltered. And she felt anew a pang for her lack of constancy. He revolted at the partial admission with all a lover’s insistence on preëminence. “Never--never! You _could_n’t care for such a fool. And he doesn’t love you, or he would have given up that folly at once--or anything you wished.”