"Mrs. Melville sang them all her choicest songs, always appeared in an unexceptionable toilette, displayed a foot equal to Cinderella's, and was, by turns, pensive or gay, thoughtful or witty, brilliant or sad; but in all bewitching!
"Helen could see nothing exceptionable in her manners or conversation, and agreed with the rest of her admirers that she was a 'splendid woman.'
"One day, as they sat at dinner, a proposal was made by Harry that they should attend the theatre that evening. Helen dared not leave her child until so late an hour, but begged them not to stay at home on her account. When the hour arrived she herself placed the spotless camellia in Mrs. Melville's raven hair, clasped the glittering diamond bracelet upon her fair, round arm, and went back, in the guilelessness of her trusting heart, to her child's cradle.
"At length, weary with its restlessness, she threw herself upon the bed and sank into a deep slumber. She dreamed of the flower-wreathed cottage where her childhood was passed, and in fancy she roamed with Harry in the sweet meadows, and revisited the old trysting-place under the trees by the river side, and heard his words of passionate love as in those golden days. She awoke and found the hour was late for Harry's return. Descending the stairs, she bent her footsteps toward the parlor.
"Transfixed, spell-bound, what has hushed the tread of those tiny, slipperless feet upon the soft carpet?
"The moonbeams fell brightly through the large bay window upon the fair Norah. Her opera-cloak had fallen carelessly at her side, displaying her matchless neck and snowy arms. Her eyes, those speaking, bewildering eyes, were bent upon Harry, who sat on a low ottoman at her feet. His hair was pushed carelessly back from his broad white brow, and Helen was no stranger to the look with which he gazed upon Mrs. Melville. Musically slow, but with dreadful distinctness, fell upon her ear the words,
"'Norah, I love you.'
"In that short sentence was compressed for the gentle wife the agony of death. None but those who have given a warm, living heart into unworthy keeping, may know such torture.
"Helen spoke not, nor gave other sign of her presence. Slowly, mechanically, she returned to her room, and, as she sank into a chair, the words 'My God, pity me!' were wrung from her soul's anguish.
"When Harry returned, she sat cold and pale, swaying her figure gently to and fro, slowly repeating,