“No, I have not forgotten it!  And I spoke the truth! but that joy which I could so keenly appreciate can never, never be mine!  And that is the secret of my madness—­for I am mad, Bee!  And, oh, I came here to-night with my torn and bleeding heart—­torn and bleeding from the dreadful battle between love and pride—­came here with my suffering heart; my sinful heart if you will; and laid it on your bosom to be soothed; and you have taken it and flung it back in my face!  You have broken the bruised reed; quenched the smoking flax; humbled the humble; smitten the fallen!  Oh, Bee, you have been more cruel than you know!  Good-by!  Good-by!” And she turned and flung herself out of the room.

“Claudia, dear Claudia, oh, forgive me!  I did not mean to wound you; if I spoke harshly it was because I felt for both!  Claudia, come back, love!” cried Bee, hurrying after her; but Claudia was gone.  Bee would have followed her; but little Lu’s voice was heard in plaintive notes.  Bee returned to the room to find her little sister lying awake with wide-open, frightened eyes.

“Oh, Bee! don’t do! and don’t let she tome bat.  She stares Lu!”

“Shall Bee take Lu up and rock her to sleep?”

“’Es.”

Bee gently lifted the little one and sat down in the rocking-chair and began to rock slowly and sing softly.  But presently she stopped and whispered: 

“Baby!”

“’Es, Bee.”

“Do you love cousin Claudia?”

“’Es, but she wates me up and stares me; don’t let she tome adain, Bee.”

“No, I will not; but poor Claudia is not happy; won’t you ask the Lord to bless poor Claudia?  He hears little children like you!”

“’Es; tell me what to say, Bee.”  And without another word the little one slid down upon her knees and folded her hands, while Bee taught the sinless child to pray for the sinful woman.

And then she took the babe again upon her lap, and rocked slowly and sung softly until she soothed her to sleep.

Then Bee arose and rustled softly about the room, making her simple toilet before going to the saloon to join the guests.

CHAPTER LXV.

ISHMAEL’S WOE.

  And with another’s crime, my birth
  She taunted me as little worth,
  Because, forsooth, I could not claim
  The lawful heirship of my name;
  Yet were a few short summers mine,
  My name should more than ever shine,
  With honors all my own!

  —­Byron.

Ishmael sat in the shadows of his room overwhelmed with shame and sorrow and despair.  He had heard every cruel word; they had entered his ears and pierced his heart.  And not only for himself he bowed his head and sorrowed and despaired, but for her; for her, proud, selfish, sinful, but loving, and oh, how fatally beloved!