“You cannot tell who it is that you are cursing,” she said imploringly. “No one can tell. He may have a wife--a child--would you have them suffer for the crime of their father?” “I would have them suffer. It is not I, but God, who said 'unto the third and fourth generation.' I am on the side of God.” “And this is the man whom I once loved!” He started as she flung his hand from her--the fingers were still bent--and walked across the room, striking her palms together passionately. He started. There was a pause before he said slowly and not without tenderness--the tenderness of the sentimentalist, not the lover: “How young we both were in those days! I'm sure we both believed most fervently that we were in love. Alas! alas! But in affairs like these the statute of limitations is automatic in its working. Nature has decreed, so we are told, that in the course of seven years every particle of that work which we call man becomes dissolved; so that nothing whatever of the man whom we see to-day is a survival of the man whom we knew seven years ago.” “Ah, that is true--so much we know to be true,” she cried, and in her voice there was a note of tenderness. She looked across the room and saw that his eyes were not turned toward her. They were turned toward the window. She saw that he was staring into the garden, and on his face there was an expression of surprise, mingled with doubt. She took a few steps to one side, and her hand made a little spasmodic grasp for the curtain, when she had seen all that he saw. Out there a charming picture presented itself against a background of bare trees, and a blue autumn sky from which the sun had just departed. A tall girl, wearing a white dress and crowned with shining golden hair, stood on the grass, while above and around her and at her feet scores of pigeons flew and circled and strutted. She was encircled with moving plumage--snow-white, delicate mauve, slate blue--some trembling poised about her head, some with their wings drawn up as they were in the act of alighting, others curving in front of her, and now and again letting themselves drop daintily upon her shoulders, and perching upon the finger which she held out to them. All the time she was laughing and crooning to them in a musical tone. That was the scene which he was watching eagerly, as he gazed through the window, quite oblivious of the tact that Agnes was watching him breathlessly. “Merciful heaven!” she heard him whisper. “Merciful heaven!” She gave a little gasp. There was a silence in the room. Outside there was a laugh and the strange croon of the girl. He turned to Agnes. “Who is that girl?” he asked. She affected not to understand his question. She raised her eyes, saying: “Girl? What girl?” “There--outside--on the lawn.” “Oh, Miss Tristram--have you seen her before?”