"The massy marbles rest On the lips that we have prest In their bloom: And the names we loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb." Suddenly he drew her hand in his arm, and led her down a shaded green alley-way. In a minute they paused before a little plot of ground whose velvet-green turf was bright with beds of rarest flowers. In the midst was a single grave, with roses and passion-flowers trailing over it. Laurel lifted her eyes and read the name cut deep into the gleaming marble shaft. "LAUREL, Beloved wife of St. Leon Le Roy." She felt a strangely hysterical inclination to laugh out aloud. How strange it seemed to stand there, so full of life and youth and passion, and read her own name carved upon a gravestone! How strange, how horrible to feel that, standing there by her husband's side, she was as dead to him as if, indeed, her lifeless clay were moldering in that low, green grave! His low, deep voice broke the trance of hysterical horror that held her senses enchained: "Mrs. Lynn, I told you yesterday that there were elements of romance and tragedy in my marriage that might interest even you. I promised, too, that I would tell you the story some day. Here, at poor Laurel's grave, I propose to keep my word." He found her a seat, and she waited silently to hear him speak. She was most curious to hear the story of her girlhood's love and temptation told by her husband's lips from his own standpoint. CHAPTER LIV. St. Leon Le Roy threw himself down on the green turf at Mrs. Lynn's feet, and resting his arm on his wife's grave, leaned his head in his hand. So resting he could look up and note every expression of the beautiful face above him--the face, deathly pale with emotion now, for all she tried so bravely to appear politely calm and interested like the stranger she pretended to be. "Do you care to hear this story I am about to tell you?" he asked, abruptly. "I am sure I shall be interested," she replied, gently, and thus encouraged he began. "It is more than nine years ago now that my mother received a letter from a lady friend in New York--Mrs. Gordon, the wife of the well-known publisher--perhaps you know him, Mrs. Lynn," he said. "Mr. Gordon is my publisher," she replied. "He had an only child--a beautiful daughter," said Mr. Le Roy. "She had betrothed herself to a poor young man of whom her parents disapproved. They proposed to break off the match by strategy, if possible. They sent their daughter to Eden to remain a few months, proposing to send her lover abroad during her absence, and so separate them as to end the affair in the quietest manner possible." He paused, but she made no comment on his words, only inclined her golden head attentively.