“In His word it is written, Arabel.”

She kissed an ivory cross lying on her bosom, and proceeded with evident difficulty.

“Well, I fled with Paul Linmere.  For a time I was very happy.  He was kind to me, and I loved him so!  We lived in a little vine-wreathed cottage, on the banks of the Seine, and I had my tiny flower-garden, my books, my birds, my faithful dog Leo—­and Paul!  Every pleasant night he used to take me out on the river in the little boat which bore my name on its side.  O, those nights of perfect peace!  The stars shone so softly, and the moon beamed with a mellow light peculiar to Southern moons.  Those seasons of delight are a sweet dream in my memory.  They seemed stolen from paradise—­they were so perfect.  I lived in a sort of blissful waking trance, that left me nothing to desire, nothing to ask for.  Fool that I was!  I thought it was to last always.  A little more cordial, Louis; it will keep the spark of life alive, perhaps, until I have finished.”

“Do not exert yourself, Arabel,” he said, pityingly; “I do not wish you to.”

“I shall die easier.  Let me go on.  After a while, Paul wearied of me.  Perhaps I was too lavish of my caresses and words of love; it might tire him to be loved so intensely.  But such was my nature.  He grew cold and distant; at times positively ill-natured.  Once he struck me; but I forgave him the blow, because he had taken too much wine.  At length, it became known to me that I was about to become a mother, and I besought him to give me a right to his name.  I could bear the shame for myself, but my child must not be born to curse the author of its being.  He laughed me to scorn, and called me by a foul name that I cannot repeat.  But I bore it all, for the sake of my unborn child, and on my knees I begged and prayed of him to legalize our union by right of marriage.  After the first, he made me no reply, but subsided into a sullen silence, which I could not make him break.  That night he asked me to go out boating with him.  I prepared myself with alacrity, for I thought he was getting pleased with me, and perhaps would comply with my request.  Are you weary of my story, Louis?”

“No, no.  Go on.  I am listening to you, Arabel.”

“It was a lovely night.  The stars gleamed like drops of molten gold, and the moon looked down, pure, and serene, and holy.  Paul was unusually silent, and I was quiet, waiting for him to speak.  Suddenly, when we reached the middle of the river, he dropped the oars, and we drifted with the current.  He sprang up, his motion nearly capsizing the frail boat, and taking a step toward me, fastened a rough hand upon my shoulders.  ‘Arabel,’ he said, hoarsely, ’your power over me is among the things of the past.  Once, I thought I loved you, but it was merely a passion which soon burned itself out.  After that, I grew to hate you; but, because I had taken you away from home and friends, I tried to treat you civilly.  Your caresses disgusted