Violet went away from that visit to the darkened, invalid chamber awed and saddened, and a little self-reproachful. She remembered how bitterly she had used to hate Jaquelina for that dazzling beauty that had won Ronald Valchester's heart. Of all that wondrous charm there remained only a memory now. "She is an object to pity and sympathize with, but never to admire again," she told her brother in the first shock of his disappointment. Walter's handsome face grew pale with dread and sorrow. "You must prepare yourself for a great alteration, Walter," Violet continued. "Her face is red and scarred, her hair is all burned off short, even her long lashes are scorched and spoiled. It will be some time before anyone can look at her without a shudder. You may love your wife, Walter, but you can never be proud of her." Walter shuddered at her emphatic words. "Do not tell me any more, Violet," he groaned. "I cannot bear it. You only torture me. Let me find it out for myself." "If you cannot bear to hear of it I do not know how you will bear the terrible reality," retorted Violet. Walter could not answer her. He longed yet dreaded for the morrow. The first thing he saw when he was ushered into Jaquelina's presence was her portrait hanging against the wall. It had been painted by the first artist in Italy. A few pale beams of winter sunshine stole in through the closed curtains and shone on the beautiful pictured face, touching it with a life-like glow. Then Walter looked away from it and saw a little figure in a quilted morning-wrapper of dark, gray satin, huddled into an easy-chair before the fire. Walter went up to his betrothed. He saw that some uncontrollable impulse had caused her to bury her poor scarred face in her small, gloved hands. The short, soft, dark hair was hidden beneath a little cap of fine muslin and lace. "Lina, my darling," he cried out in a voice of yearning pain, and she looked up reluctantly at her lover. Then Walter saw that even Violet's words had not prepared him for the sorrowful reality. To have saved his life he could not have repressed the groan of anguish that sight wrung from his lips. He had so loved that bright, fascinating beauty, he had been so proud of it when she had promised to be his own. Now at this moment it seemed to him that the girl he had loved was dead and buried, and this an utter stranger who looked up at him with that poor scarred face, and those dim and sad, dark eyes. "Sit down, Mr. Earle," she said, gently. "It is even worse than you imagined, is it not?" "Yes," he answered, like one dazed, then started, ashamed of his candor. "Oh! forgive me, Lina," he cried, "I am talking like a brute." He sat down then and tried not to look at the poor face that reminded him of a blighted flower. But some irresistible fascination drew his own gaze to meet the wistful eyes that had lost all their brightness now and were dim and misty with pain and weakness.