She could not speak it.

But the other could.

“Carleton?” she asked; and at Ermentrude’s agitated nod, added with friendly interest:  “This is her home; but she has left it for a while to us.  I am Mr. Carleton Roberts’ wife.”

* * * * *

There are blows which prostrate; there are others which sear but leave the body intact—­feet still supporting it—­eyes still gazing ahead unmoved—­lips moving with mechanical exactness and sometimes still retaining their smile.  Only the soul which gave life to all of this is dead.  The image is there but the spirit is gone; and if sufficiently preoccupied, the one who struck the blow sees no change.  So was it with Ermentrude and Lucie.

“We are looking for mother to return next week,” added the latter as Ermentrude stood stark and silent before her.  “Would you like to leave a message for her?”

At these words uttered with the sweetness of a rich and sympathetic nature, the soul returned to Ermentrude’s body.  With a long and earnest look which took in the full measure of the other’s personality, radiant with happiness and the consciousness of an assured wifedom, she answered softly: 

“No, I will leave no message,” and turned as if to go.

“Nor any name?” queried Lucie, eying with admiration the noble lines of a figure with whose perfect proportions her own could never hope to compete.

“Nor any name,” came back in indescribable accents from the doorway.

Lucie paused, and gazing in vague trouble after her rapidly disappearing visitor, murmured to herself, “Who is she?”

But the one who could have answered her was gone.

* * * * *

“Carleton, you seldom see such a woman.  Younger than I, she had the poise of a woman of thirty.  Who could she have been?”

“Describe her.”

“I wish I could; I hardly saw her face; it was her figure, her voice, her way of moving and holding herself.  I felt as small and quiet as a little mouse beside her.  Only I was happy and she was not.  That much I feel now that I recall her look in leaving.”

“Was she American or—­or foreign?” he asked, hiding his trouble, for a great fear had seized him.

“She had an English accent which added very much to her charm.”

“Forget her.”  For a moment his accent was almost fierce, then he laughed the matter off, assuring this bride of a month that she made him cross with her self-depreciation, that there was no one of finer mien and manner than herself, the chosen of his heart upon whom he always looked with pride.  Which subtle tribute to what was her greatest charm accomplished its end; she did forget the stranger.

But he did not; he knew what was before him and prepared himself for the inevitable meeting which would be followed by—­what?

Not by what he had every right to expect and evidently did.  Ermentrude had learned all she would both of this marriage and of the woman who had supplanted her, and had made her resolve.  This he saw as they came together in the isolation of a quiet corner of the Park, and so was not greatly surprised, though a little moved, as after the first few words, and with an earnest look, she said: