Already "virtue's own reward" seems in her grasp, her heart is lighter, her spirit does not quail. She is tasting perhaps a shred of the martyrs' joy, when they suffered in the cause of right, she is battling down that weaker nature and gaining a victory in advance. She is impatient for the moment to arrive when Carol shall stand before her to learn his fate, his isolation, from her lips. No pity, no glimpse of feeling, no suspicion of sentiment is to creep into this day's farewell. He will leave her for ever with the ordinary hand-shake of a casual acquaintance. Yes, she is nerved, strong, sure! It has taken Eleanor three nights of sleepless vigil to overcome her love and stamp it out. She has not reached this point without a struggle. She listens eagerly for him to come, longing for the interview to commence and end, while a spirit of heroism is upon her, laying her lower nature in the dust. "Down! you shall never rise again," she cries. "Oh! why is he so long? I want him _now_. I could do it _now_. After to-day I shall have swept the temptation from my path, and made it impossible for Carol Quinton to be my friend." The bell rings--the outer bell. She staggers to her feet. The brown chrysanthemum in her belt falls to the ground and lies unheeded. How she trembles! Her face, too, is deadly pale, revealed in the mirror opposite. She sways like a flower blown in a gale. There is a prayer on her lips, an angel knocking at her heart. The door opens, and Sarah enters with the tea-tray. Eleanor sinks on the sofa, the reaction leaving her faint and powerless to speak. She watches the tea-table brought forward, the hot scones placed by the fire. At last she regains her composure. "Who was that at the front door, Sarah?" "Mr. Quinton, ma'am." "Mr. Quinton! Why did you not show him in?" Eleanor leans forward breathlessly, looking Sarah up and down. The maid crimsons, and replies: "If you please, it was master's orders. He told me to say 'not at home' when Mr. Quinton called." A moment's pause, during which Mrs. Roche struggles with her self-control. Then in a calm voice she says: "Very well, Sarah; that is all." She raised the teapot with an effort, pouring out the brown fluid jerkily. As the door closes, she covers her face with her hands, rocking to and fro. [Illustration: She covers her face with her hands.] "He does not trust me," she cries fiercely, all that is evil kindling to life within her. "He slights and insults me, lowers me before my own servants. He dares to shut his doors against my will, to the man who is my friend. He treats me like a captive, a slave. Oh! Philip, you do not know what you have done to-day? You do not guess how much this want of faith may cost you. I was so strong, till you threw me back, so sure, till you treated me like this!"