dreamed that it might be my fate to release you from this unhappy position. I thought you might divorce the husband who has wronged you, but you refuse to do so, for the sake of the child. Ah, that is the god of your idolatry--you care for nothing in the world save your child. It is the selfish passion of motherhood--pure, good, elevating --but still selfish. It is the child that came between you and your husband--it is the child who comes now between you and me. My love remains unaltered--it will always be the same--and had you been free I might have spoken to you without dishonour. You refuse to loosen the bonds of your loveless marriage, and as I cannot be your lover or your husband, I dare not be your friend. Your husband is parted from you--he will never return. I am going away on a perilous journey--I will never return. Therefore you will be alone with what you love best in the world--your child." With her clear eyes fixed steadily on his face she heard him to the end of this long speech without a quiver of the eyelids--without the trembling of her lip--and when he finished: "So I am the married woman you said you loved?" she asked coldly. "Yes! and you say----" "I say now what I said then," she answered sternly, "no man can be a true lover if he would wish to drag the woman he loves through the mud of the world." Eustace flushed deeply. "You misunderstand me," he said hurriedly; "I do not want to drag you down. I would not have spoken, only I thought a divorce----" "A divorce!" she echoed, rising to her feet, "and what is that but dishonour to me and to the child?" "Always the child," he said sullenly. "And why not? The only pure thing in the world I have to love. My husband has deceived me. You have changed from a friend to a lover. I cannot listen to you without dishonour. What you said was perfectly true--my love for the child is the selfish passion of motherhood. I pardon the words which you have spoken to me to-night, but we must never meet again." "We will not," he muttered hoarsely, "I leave England for ever." "Then we understand each other, and nothing now remains but to say goodbye." "Have you no word of pity?" "I am sorry for your foolish passion," she said gently, "but can I say more without lowering myself in your eyes? "No--you are right. It is best for me to go. The star will never come down from Heaven for me, but it will always shine there." He caught her hand and touched it with his hot lips. "Goodbye, Alizon. God--God bless you, my dearest!" Was it a fancy that a burning tear had fallen on her chill hand? She looked, and lo! her hand was wet. The door had closed--she was alone in the room, deserted both by husband and lover. "Poor Eustace," she said softly, "I am sorry for his madness; but if he is unhappy I also am miserable. My husband and friend have both left me, but I have always my child." CHAPTER XXXVI. THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.