"I care not; but to-day--this same hour--you will have driven me to my death!" "Oh, Carol, you are cruel!" she sighs. Then the words well into her brain, with fierce, upbraiding, horrible reality: "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow." She sees the faded towzled hair of the woman in the train, the dusty crape of her bonnet, the red upon her lips. A cry escapes her, and sinking on the green bank by the roadside, Eleanor buries her face in the grass and sobs in uncontrollable anguish. Carol cannot bear to watch her misery. He stoops down and gathers the little figure in his arms, straining it to his heart. He kisses dry the liquid eyes, and soothes the low deep sobs. "I have decided," he says. "And your choice, our fate, the end?" she asks breathlessly. "To take," he replies, holding her fast, "not give back that which is mine, now and for ever. To rule (if that is the harsh term you give my love), to devour, to crush, to live, Eleanor, not die." The words sound like a shout of victory on the still air. They kindle a mad delight in the woman's stricken heart. "We will leave this miserable country, where you are a captive to a man who cannot hold your love, yet calls himself 'husband.' We will go away, no matter where, since we shall be together. We have only our two selves to live for now. The world was created for us alone, we need remember nothing else, an Eden to love in and be happy. Oh! my darling, how bright I will make your life, as it never was before." "You are right," says Eleanor slowly. "I have never known true happiness. I was very fond of Philip when I married him--the lukewarm affection that grows cold instantly in the chill air of disagreement or mistrust. The love which you have kindled in me is something I did not know or dream of. It is worth all else!" Carol takes her wedding finger, holds it to his lips a moment, then places an embossed gold ring below the knuckle, with "Kismet" engraved upon it. Eleanor gazes on the ring wistfully. The words are full of meaning to her just now. "'Kismet,'" she murmurs. "Only a true Mahommedan should use that expression." She draws a cat's eye stone, that Philip gave her, from her hand, and offers it to Carol. This is the last, the supreme act of surrender--that, more than all else, renounces for ever and ever Philip, honour, wifehood, and lays her low in the dust. They walk through the green fields hand in hand; they talk of things to be. The children coming home from school stare at Eleanor, and think how beautiful she is, wondering at the handsome stranger who gazes in her eyes, and whispers so low they cannot catch the words.