The Doctor held in his hand, on the point of a knife, the flower of a cactus very common in the mountains, which he presented her, warning her at the same time against its needle-like thorns. "It makes me sick," said Alice hastily, throwing it away. "It is the color of gold, which I want so much; and of the sunshine, which I hate so." "I brought it to you to show you the little emerald bee that is always to be found in one: it is wonderously beautiful,--a living gem, is it not?" "Yes, I know," Alice said, "I admired the first one I saw; but I admire nothing any longer--nothing at least which surrounds me here." "I understand that, of course," returned the Doctor. "It is because your health is failing you--because the air disagrees with you." "And because my husband is so unfortunate. If he could only get away from here--and I!" The vanity of such a supposition, in their present circumstances, brought the tears to her eyes and a quiver about her mouth. "Why did you ever come here! Why did he ever ask you to come;--how _dared_ he?" demanded the Doctor, setting his teeth together. "That is a strange question, Doctor!" Mrs. Hastings answered with dignity, lifting her head like an antelope. "My husband was deceived by the same hopes which have ruined others. If I suffer, it is because we are both unfortunate." "What will he do next?" questioned the Doctor curtly. The cruel meaning caused the blood to forsake her cheeks. "I cannot tell what he will do,"--her brief answer rounded by an expressive silence. "You might help him: shall I point out the way to you?"--watching her intently. "Can you? _can_ I help him?"--her whole form suddenly inspired with fresh life. Dr. Earle looked into her eager face with a passion of jealous inquiry that made her cast down her eyes: "Alice, do you _love_ this Hastings?" He called her Alice; he used a tone and asked a question which could not be misunderstood. Mrs. Hastings dropped her face into her hands, her hands upon her knees. She felt like a wild creature which the dogs hold at bay. She knew now what the man meant, and the temptation he used. "Alice," he said again, "this man, your husband, possesses a prize he does not value; or does not know how to care for. Shall you stay here and starve with him? Is he worth it?" "He is my husband," she answered simply, lifting up her face, calm, if mortally pale. "And I might be your husband, after a brief interval," he said quickly. "There would have to be a divorce;--it could be conducted quietly. I do not ask you to commit yourself to dishonor. I will shield you; no care shall fall upon you, nor any reproach. Consider this well, dearest darling Alice! and what will be your fate if you depend upon him." "Will it help _him_ then, to desert him?" she asked faintly.