Was the moment of disenchantment upon her now? She did not deceive herself—too late she owned the truth. What was the worst? He was weak—then she must be strong. She thought of herself in years to come. People said you couldn’t reform a man who drank—her father had been very strong on this point. She had thought of it all before, to be sure; but now—now it came home. She imagined herself keeping his house for him, getting his meals—perhaps with children; waiting, listening suspiciously for his returning footsteps; trying to keep him “straight,”—perhaps not succeeding. Yes, she must succeed! People looked down on him—so they would look down on her. And while her clear and pure nature reasserted itself, and thought and tried pathetically to find out truth alone, her cheeks still burned, her senses owned his sway. Those intoxicating moments forced themselves upon her, whether she would or no. But the truth—the truth below that, the truth was that she did not love him. You can carry any burden if you have the strong wings of love, but she had them not. What was to have been the crowning of her maidenhood had come to this—a sacrifice to the baser, and without love. Nay, not that, not quite that! The maternal spirit in Dosia rose and yearned over this outcast, whom nobody loved, with a tenderness which owned no thought of self; she must never think of herself any more, but only what was best for him. She was to be his wife. The word brought a choking feeling, with its thrill of mystery. She was so young—so young! Could she keep up a sacrifice always? Why had she not been able to think in this way until now? The answer came clearly in her search for truth: because she would not let herself do so. She had been warned—she had been warned. “Pray—it helps.” That was what she had said to him. Ah, yes! She slid to her knees; her only real help was in Heaven. She must keep her promise! She must always love him whom nobody loved, and trust him whom nobody trusted. Perhaps—perhaps when he kissed her again—She put the thought away, so that she, a child, might speak straight to God. And while she prayed Lawson was coming down-stairs with his hat on. “You are not going out?” His sister barred the way, in a purple velvet gown, and laid a plump jeweled hand on his sleeve. The lights were already out in the drawing-room, and, beyond, the servants were removing the last traces of the supper. He did not answer for a moment, looking at her with hard eyes, void of expression save for a certain tenseness. It was a look she knew. Then he answered roughly: “I’m going in on the twelve-o’clock train with some of the boys. It’s no good to talk.” “Lawson! not now.” Her tone was angry. “Go up-stairs—to bed.” “Well, I guess—not!” said Lawson. He swept her hand from his arm, and was out of the door and running quickly down the steps before she turned. [Illustration: _It was a look she knew_]