Yet, what could she do to protect herself?  If she resented these indignities with honest pride, what would become of her, and that other who looked to her for support?  Whatever it is possible for manly pride and independence to achieve, there is nothing for a woman but submission.

Clemence Graystone had long ere this put away all hopes of earthly happiness, and lived only by the light of an approving conscience.  She took her troubles to her Heavenly Father, and in His smile forgot that the world frowned.  She had the consciousness within her of having done her whole duty, and she lived not for this world alone.  She felt that she was only one of the many, and she cared not for distinction among those she despised.  The fickle multitude elevate to-day and dethrone to-morrow, leaving their once petted favorite to whatever fate may await them.

Thoughts like these floated through Clemence’s mind, as she followed Mrs. Burton into the parlor, and took a seat.

“You have seen a good deal of trouble, I believe,” said the lady, scanning the girl’s face closely.  “Yes, madame,” said Clemence, briefly.

“This is a world of trouble,” she went on, applying her handkerchief to her eyes.  “I, too, have my full share.  I am deeply afflicted.  Miss Graystone, I am an unloved wife.”

She began to sob hysterically at this announcement, and to weave backwards and forwards in her chair, while her listener shifted a little uneasily upon her seat, wondering what could possibly be coming now.

“Yes,” she said mournfully, “the man who vowed at the altar to love and cherish the treasure committed to his keeping, has proved recreant to the trust reposed in him.  Look on this ethereal form, and upon this brow shadowed with grief, and at these eyes that have grown dim with weeping for one who is all unworthy of my devotion.  Alas! that I should come to this, who was once surrounded by everything that could make life a blessing.  This hand, that others prized, and sued for in vain, is unvalued now.  On my wedding day, one of my rejected suitors came to my new-made husband, and exclaimed, in accents of deep despair,—­’Charles Burton, you have won her from those who would have devoted their whole lives to her service, and counted it as nothing, that they might bask in the sunlight of her presence; and I warn you, guard well the priceless jewel.  You have forever placed a bar to my happiness in this world, but if you never cause one feeling of regret for this day to rise in that gentle bosom, all is well.  I can deny myself for one I love better than life itself.’

“This was the man whose suit I scorned, to listen to that of the perfidious being whose name I bear.  I am a miserable victim.  Life is unsupportable to me.  Next spring, if my husband does not return, like the prodigal, remorseful and repentant, I shall become a missionary, and give my life for the cause I love.”