That was all, for she was too wretched to add another word; but in her despair she remained upon her knees, her golden head bent low in the attitude of prayer, and thus Mrs. Fleming found her when she presently returned. The sight might have moved a tender-hearted woman to pity, but Lutie Fleming was as hard as the nether millstone. She would rather have seen her successful rival crushed with grief and woe than happy in the love of Dallas Bain, as she had seen her such a little while ago. “Their triumph was short-lived,” she smiled to herself, as Daisie dragged herself up to a sitting posture, showing her wild, white, woeful face, from which all the light of joy had been stricken out by sorrow. “Well, your aunt has retired, as there was really nothing to be gained by her sitting up, so you and I will keep our vigil together,” the widow said, and Daisie bowed coldly, without answering. What, indeed, could she say? She felt herself caught in the toils of a terrible fate from which she could see no escape. “As I was saying to you a little while ago, Daisie, the outcome of this matter depends on you,” continued Mrs. Fleming. “My position is a very delicate one. My cousin, whom I dearly love, has been murdered in cold-blooded malice by the man you love--by your lover!” “Ah, no, no--never; he did not do it! Dallas would not be so cruel. You have made a mistake,” sobbed Daisie piteously. “There is no mistake. I saw the murder done--saw Dallas Bain flying from the scene of the crime. And the motive is plain. It was murderous wrath because Royall had married you. He did it to set you free for himself, forgetting that even you could hardly dare to brave public opinion by marrying your husband’s murderer.” Daisie shuddered, without answering, and watched the light-blue orbs of Mrs. Fleming as if they were a basilisk’s eyes, feeling the while as if a serpent’s folds were tightening around her, slowly crushing her to death. “Of course,” continued her tormentor, “my duty is plain. I should denounce Royall’s cowardly murderer to the law, and let him suffer for his crime. But that would not restore my poor cousin to life.” “No,” faltered Daisie, almost appealingly, in her horror of the woman’s trying to fasten such a crime on Dallas, for she felt in her heart he was innocent. “But my first thought is to soothe my cousin’s dying hours. The doctor has told me that he may die to-night or to-morrow, or linger for days in misery. There is even one single chance of his recovery--the chance of a strong constitution triumphing over his terrible wound. You see, I am quite frank with you, Daisie.” “Yes, and I see you have some faint hope of your cousin’s recovery. I hope, indeed, that he may live.” “You need not wish that, Daisie. He would rather die than live without your love.”