“Norman,” she said, in a broken voice, “I yield, I submit.  You know best, dear.  In truth, I am not worthy to be your wife.  I urge no claim on you; but, my darling, must I leave you?  You are the very light of my life, heart of my heart, soul of my soul—­must I leave you?  Could I not remain here as your servant, your slave, the lowliest in your house—­somewhere near, where I may hear the tones of your voice, the sound of your footsteps—­where I may stand sometimes at the window and see you ride away—­where I may render you little attentions such as loving wives render?  Oh, Norman, be merciful and grant me that at least!”

“My darling, I cannot—­do not tempt me.  You do not understand I love you with a fierce, passionate love.  If you were near me, I should be compelled to show that love to you every hour of the day—­to treat you as my dear and honored wife.  If you were near me, I might forget my resolves and remember only my love.”

“No one should know,” she whispered, “that I was your wife.  I should take the guise of the humblest servant in the place.  No one should know, love.  Oh, darling, let it be so!”

She saw great drops of agony on his brow; she saw a world of pain in his eyes which alarmed her.

“It cannot be,” he replied, hoarsely.  “You must urge me no more—­you are torturing me.”

Then she rose, humbly enough, and turned away.

“I will say no more, Norman.  Now do with me what you please.”

There was silence for a few minutes.  The sun was sinking low in the western sky, the chirp of the birds was growing faint in the trees.  She raised her colorless face to his.

“I submit, Norman,” she said.  “You have some plan to propose.  Do with me just as you will.”

It was cruel—­no crueler fate had ever fallen to a man’s lot—­but honor obliged him to act as he did.  He took her hand in his.

“Some day, dear wife,” he said, “you will understand what suffering this step has cost me.”

“Yes,” she murmured, faintly; “I may understand in time.”

“While I have been sitting here,” he went on, “I have been thinking it all over, and I have come to a decision as to what will be best for you and for me.  You are Lady Arleigh of Beechgrove—­you are my wife; you shall have all the honor and respect due to your position.”

She shuddered as though the words were a most cruel mockery.

“You will honor,” she questioned, bitterly, “the daughter of a felon?”

“I will honor my wife, who has been deceived even more cruelly than myself,” he replied.  “I have thought of a plan,” he continued, “which can be easily carried out.  On our estate not twenty miles from here—­there is a little house called the Dower House—­a house where the dowagers of the family have generally resided.  It is near Winiston, a small country town.  A housekeeper and two servants live in the house now, and keep it in order.  You will be happy there, my darling, I am sure, as far as is possible.  I will see that you have everything you need or require.”