"You have deserved death." This I managed to utter. "But if you will swear to obey me, you shall not pay your forfeit till you have had a further taste of life. Not in my house; there is not sufficient freedom within its walls for you; but in the broad world, where people dance and sing and grow old at their leisure, without duty and without care. For three months you shall have this, and have it to your heart's content. Then you shall come back to me my true wife, if your heart so prompts; if not, to tell me of your failure and quit me for ever. But--" Here I fear my voice grew terrible, for her hands instinctively rose again. "Those three months must be lived unstained. As you are in God's sight this hour, I demand of you to swear that, if you forget this or disregard it, or for any cause subject my name to dishonor, that you will return unbidden at the first moment your reason returns to you, to take what punishment I will. On this condition I send you away to-night. Aline, will you promise?" She did not answer; but her face rose. I did not understand its look. There was pathos in it, and something else. That something else troubled me. "Are you dissatisfied?" I asked. "Is the time too short? Do you want more months for dancing?" She shook her head and the little hands rose again: "Do not send me away," she faintly entreated; "I don't know why--but I--had rather stay." "With me? Impossible. Are you ready to promise, Aline?" Then she rose and looked me in the eye with courage, almost with resolution. "As I live!" said she. And I knew she would keep her word. The next thing I remember of that night was the sight of her little white, shivering figure looking out at me from the carriage that was to carry her away. The night was cold, and I had tucked her in with as much care as I might have done the evening before, when I still worshiped her, still thought her mine, or at least as much mine as she was any one's. When I had done this and pressed a generous gift into her hand, I stood a minute at the carriage door, in pity of her aspect. She looked so pinched and pale, so dazed and hopeless. Had she been alone--but the companion with whom I had provided her was at her side and my tongue was tied. I turned, and the driver started up the horses. "Philo!" I heard blown by me on the wind. Was it she who called? No, for there was anguish in the cry, the anguish of a woman, and she was only a frightened, disheartened child whom I had sent away to--dance.