Melusine had confessed this morning, that she had borrowed his horse, that Jack had met with his accident through her fault. You did not marry her because you loved her; you did not marry because she might have had money; you did not marry her out of gratitude; you did not marry her because you had to. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. “Sure, I guess so. She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it.
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