sitting quietly in her pew wearing a plain black silk gown; still, devout, seeming to notice no one: had she been training for a nun, the world could not have appeared to possess less interest for her. Her black lace veil was never lifted from her face: but it could not hide that face's beauty. As soon as church was over Rosaline seemed to glide away before any one else stirred, and was lost to sight.

In this unsatisfactory manner the seasons had passed, Frank and his wife living in an estranged atmosphere, without any acknowledged cause for the unhappy state of affairs.

On this self-same evening when Edina was on her way to them, the West Indian mail brought a letter to Frank from Mr. Max Brown. That roving individual wrote regularly once a month, all his letters being filled, more or less, with vague promises of return. Vague, because no certain time was ever given. Frank called Eve

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