“As the widow, you would say.  Surely that widowhood can be no bar to my suit.”

“I do not call myself the widow of Rule Rothsay, but his wife,” said Cora, solemnly.

“But, my dear lady, surely death has—­”

“Death has not,” said Cora, fervently interrupting him—­“death cannot sever two souls as united as ours.  I mean to spend the years I have to live on earth, temporarily and partially separated from my husband, in good works of which he would approve; with which he would sympathize and which would draw his spirit into closer communion with mine; and I hope at that ascension to the higher life which we miscall death to meet him face to face, to be able to tell him, ’I have finished my work, I have kept the faith,’ and to be with him forever in one of the many mansions of the Father’s kingdom.”

“I see,” said the suitor, with a deep sigh, “that my suit would be utterly useless at present.  But I will not give up the hope that is my life—­the hope that you may yet look with favor on my love.  I will merit that you should do so.  Cora Rothsay, I will no longer vex you with my presence in this house.  I will take leave of you even now, and only ask of your courtesy the use of a dog cart to take me to the North End Hotel.”

“You are good, you are very good to me, and I pray with all my heart that you may meet some woman much more worthy of your grace than am I, and that you may be very happy.  God bless you, Duke of Cumbervale,” said Cora, earnestly.

He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it, bowed over it and silently left the room.

Cora stepped after him and shut the door; then she hastened across the floor, threw herself down on the sofa, buried her face in the cushions and gave way to the flood of tears that flowed in sympathy with the pain she had given.  Meantime the duke went up to his room and rang for his valet.

That grave and accomplished gentleman came at once.

“Dubois, go down and order the dogcart to be at the door in half an hour; then return here to assist me.”

The Frenchman bowed profoundly and withdrew.

“I have come a long way for a disappointment,” murmured the rejected lover, as he threw himself languidly upon the outside of the bed and clasped his hands above his head.  “A fanatic she certainly is.  A lunatic also most probably.  Yet I cannot get her out of my head.  I would go to Canada—­to Quebec—­if it was not so abominably cold.  Vane is there with the 110th.  But the climate is too severe.  I must move southward, not northward—­southward, through California, and thence to the Sandwich Islands, New Zealand, and Australia.  That will be a pleasant winter voyage.  Talbot is at Sydney, and the climate, and the scenery, and the fruits and vegetables said to be the finest in the world.  It will be a new experience, and if I can’t forget her among soldiers and convicts, miners and bushmen—­well, then, I will come back and make a third attempt.  Well, Dubois, what is it?” This question to his valet, who just then re-entered the room.