He fought fiercely with his sorrow and shame, and went boldly out into the world again; but it would have been easier to face the cannon of an opposing army than the curious faces of his friends and acquaintances, and even of strangers who knew him by sight, and pointed him out to others as a jilted bridegroom, the latest victim of Miss Van Lew. It was hard, it was cruel, it was living martyrdom, and Viola’s deepest thirst for revenge might have been more than satiated could she have looked into his heart. So the days came and went, but it was not so easy to put aside the thought of Viola. The agony of loss tugged at his heart-strings, and he grew pale and thin and graver and quieter than ever, so that people could not help seeing that his trouble preyed on his mind. His cousin, Mrs. Wellford, indeed counseled him angrily to forget Viola, reminding him how she had always advised him against the match, saying that the lovely coquette was not worthy of a good man’s love. “I would prefer not to discuss that subject with you, Ruby,” he replied, with a sternness that insured her future silence, although he knew that had he felt free to tell her the circumstances she might have viewed everything differently. But his desire to conceal his own blunder and keep his promise to Viola, that she might give the world any explanation she chose, held him silent. “I can not vindicate either Viola or myself, let the world say what it will,” he concluded. So the time flew by, and he heard of Viola’s critical illness and then her sudden widowhood. Perhaps a ray of hope for future days penetrated the sadness of his heart. He heard with joy of her convalescence, and said to himself: “Her twelve months of widowhood will soon pass, and when I come back to Congress next year--who knows?” not acknowledging to himself that he was glad Rolfe Maxwell was dead, yet feeling a new spring in life. He knew that Florian Gay had returned to his studio work with renewed zest after his long play-spell, and a sudden fancy seized him one day to call and ask if he desired to have any more sittings on the portrait begun last year. “We used to be such good friends, it seems a pity we should drift apart; though, of course, Florian had terrible provocation to hate me,” he thought; but pursuing his plan of reconciliation, he presented himself at the studio. Florian received him coldly and with reserve, secretly resenting the visit. He was working very busily, and he did not conceal from his caller that it was Viola’s portrait he was finishing by the efficient aid of memory. “Love, unperceived, A more ideal artist he than all, Came, drew his pencil from him, made those eyes Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ash-buds in the front of March.” Desha gazed long and steadily at the picture, his heart throbbing with passion; but he made no sign, saying, with pretended calmness: