He told her his decision, told her all that he had said to his wife in his outraged pride and wrath. She was weeping bitterly when he had finished. "Mother, surely you do not blame me and excuse her," he said, wonderingly. "I had no thought but that you would take my part against her." "I must see her first," she said, almost angrily in her deep earnestness. "I cannot condemn her unheard. You will let me see the child, St. Leon?" "Of course," he answered, impatiently. "You do not suppose I would deny any wish of that kind you choose to express, mother. But to-night you are too ill and nervous. You will wait until to-morrow." "Oh, my son, do not be angry with me--I cannot wait. Send her to me now," she wept. "I am quite sure you had better wait until to-morrow," he began, but at that moment Mlle. Marie pushed open the door and looked in with a pale, frightened face. "Is Mrs. Le Roy here?" she asked. "Because she is not in her room, and I cannot find her anywhere." "St. Leon, you have driven her away," his mother cried out, wildly. He sprung to his feet in dismay. "No, no," he said, quickly. "Do not think such a thing, mother. Stay here, Marie, I will go and find her if she can be found. She is not far, of course." But all the same a hand of ice seemed to grip his heart as he hurried from the room. She was gone--the dark-eyed bride whom he had loved so well, and who had so fatally deceived him. While Marie gossiped with her familiars she had quietly stolen away. A little, tear-blotted note lay on her dressing-table. "I have gone away, my husband," it said. "I shall never trouble your peace again. Perhaps when I am dead you will forgive me for having loved you, 'not wisely, but too well.'" And to the pathetic note she had simply signed the despised name of "Laurel Vane." The white satin dress, the withered crimson roses, lay on the dressing-room floor; the jewels she had worn, some costly sparkling rubies, on her dressing-table, beside the little note. A simple walking-dress and close hat and veil were gone from her wardrobe; but the next morning the dark-blue veil and a pair of pretty dark kid gloves, with the dimpled impress of her hand still in them, were found upon the river bank close to the greedy gurgling waves. They suggested a horrible possibility to every one. And one week later a mutilated unrecognizable body was washed upon the shore near Eden. The face was defaced beyond recognition; but the golden hair, the dark dress, the dainty linen, were like Laurel's. No one doubted that the despairing wife had sought oblivion from her woes in the deep, swirling river. If St. Leon forgave her now for her sin, he made no sign. He remained silent, grave, inscrutable. But the waif from the river was buried quietly in the Le Roy vault, with all the honors due to his wife. He shed no tears, he spoke no word of the feelings that held sway within him. The separation of death was no wider than he had meant should exist in life.