The gloaming was falling when he reached Sunset Hall. He entered the parlor. It was dark and untenanted, save by a slender, black-robed figure, seated by the window, as motionless as a statue. It was Minnette—her white hands clasped tightly together, and resting on the window-sill, her forehead leaned upon them, her long black hair falling in disorder over her shoulders.
A pang of remorse shot through his heart at the sight of that despairing figure. He went over and laid his hand gently on her arm.
"Minnette!" he said, softly.
At the sound of that loved voice, at the touch of that dear hand, she started up, and, flinging back her long hair, confronted him, with such a white, haggard face, such wild, despairing eyes, that involuntarily he started back.
"Dear Minnette, what is the matter?" he said, gently taking her hand.
She wrenched it from his grasp, with a bitter cry, and sinking back into a seat, covered her face with her hands.
"Minnette, are you ill? What is the matter?" he asked, afraid to accept the answer that his own heart gave.
"The matter!" she cried, bitterly. "Oh, you may ask! You do not know. You were not by my side from morning till night, whispering your wily words into my ear, until this fair, this angelic, Celeste came! You do not know what it is to have led a cold, loveless life, until some one came and won all the wealth of love that had all your days lain dormant, and then cast it back as a worthless gift at your feet! You do not know what it is to discover first you have a heart by its aching! Oh, no! All this is unknown to you. 'Ill!'"
She laughed wildly.
"Minnette! Minnette! do not talk so passionately! In the name of heaven, what have I done?"