“God help her!” he moaned, his first thought, his first prayer, for Daisy, the girl who called herself his wife, when just across the hall, only a few rods away, was the bride of a few hours—­another woman who bore his name and called him her husband.

With a face as pale as ashes and hands which shook like palsied hands, he read again that pathetic cry from her whom he now felt he had never ceased to love; aye, whom he loved still, and whom, if he could, he would have taken to his arms so gladly and loved and cherished as the priceless thing he had once thought her to be.  The first moments of agony which followed the reading of the letter were Daisy’s wholly, and in bitterness of soul the man she had cast off and thought to take again cried out, as he stretched his arms toward an invisible form:  “Too late, darling—­too late.  But had it come two months, one month, or even one week ago, I would—­would—­have gone to you over land and sea, but now—­another is in your place, another is my wife; Julia—­poor, innocent Julia.  God help me to keep my vow; God help me in my need!”

He was praying now; Julia was the burden of his prayer.  And as he prayed there came into his heart an unutterable tenderness and pity for her.  He had thought he loved her an hour ago! he believed he loved her now, or, if he did not, he would be to her the kindest, most thoughtful of husbands, and never let her know, by word or sign, of the terrible pain he should always carry in his heart.  “Darling Daisy; poor Julia!” was what to himself he designated the two women who were both so much to him.  To the first his love, to the other his tender care, for she was worthy of it.  She was noble, and good, and womanly; he said it many times, and tried to stop the rapid heart throbs and quiet himself down to meet her when she should come to him with her frank, open face and smile, in which there was no shadow of guile.  She was coming now; he heard her voice in the hall speaking to her friend, and, thrusting the fatal letter in his pocket, he rose to his feet, and steadying himself upon the table stood waiting for her, as, flushed and eager, she came in.

“Guy—­Guy—­what is it?  Are you sick?” she asked, alarmed at the pallor on his face and the strange expression of his eyes.

He was glad she had thus construed his agitation, and he answered that he was faint and a little sick.

“It came on suddenly, while I was sitting here.  It will pass off as suddenly,” he said, trying to smile, and holding out his hand, which she took at once in hers.

“Is it your heart, Guy?  Do you think it is your heart?” she continued, as she rubbed and caressed his cold, clammy hand.

A shadow of pain or remorse flitted across Guy’s face as he replied: 

“I think it is my heart, but I assure you there is no danger—­the worst is over.  I am a great deal better.”

And he was better with that fair girl beside him, her face glowing with excitement and her soft hands pressing his.  Perfectly healthy herself, she must have imparted some life and vigor to him, for he felt his pulse grow steadier beneath her touch, and the blood flow more easily through his veins.