“I had not known that Owen had a wife, and as yet I could scarcely believe it true. If such was the case I knew full well it was to her he belonged and not to me. How I managed to live through that day I do not know. My heart felt like stone in my breast; no tears came to ease or quench the aching, burning pain.
“In the evening Owen came whistling up the garden path, his handsome face all aglow with the sunshine of happiness. He came bounding into the room where I was sitting and the next instant he had caught me in his arms and was madly straining me to his breast, smothering me with kisses. But suddenly he seemed to discover something amiss in my manner. Holding me away from him the better to look at me he said,
“‘What is it, birdie? not sick are you?’
“‘Yes,’ I said, struggling with the tears,—‘heart-sick.’
“All the sunshine, all the laughter was gone from his face in an instant.
“‘Explain, sweetheart, what is it?’ For answer I pointed to the ruined picture.
“‘Why’——he stammered. ‘What has happened?’
“To speak would have been impossible. I felt as if a cold, unseen hand was clutching at my throat. So I merely handed him the card with the name of ‘Mrs. Owen Hunter’ upon it. I shall never forget the look of dismay that passed over his face.
“‘Do you mean to say she has been here?’ he articulated. I merely inclined my head. His arms fell slowly away from me and stepping to the open window, he stood looking out into nothing for a long time,—so long, indeed, that I thought he had forgotten that I was there. When he turned back to me his face looked in the gray twilight as if it had aged ten years.
“‘And will my sweet love send me away because of this woman?’ He asked the question holding my hand in both of his, closely pressed to his cheek. His voice did not sound the same. All the laughter, all the life had left it. I saw he was suffering, and the knowledge did not tend to lessen the pain that was tugging at my own heart. I answered his question with another.