THE UNDERGROUND VAULT AND THE SECRETARY'S RECEPTION.

This was what Constance saw—a large vault paved and walled with stone, to which there was but one entrance—the door at which she stood; a printing press, on which two men in their shirt sleeves were leaning, one with a mallet in his hand, the other holding a lamp low down.

"It is an ill wind which blows nobody good," she heard Crist say. "This obstinate fit fortunately come over your wife after the best part of her work was done."

"Yes," answered Church, "but I would pitch her work overboard, forever, if that would bring her old self back again. I tell you what, Crist, I have no heart to work, when I think of her conduct toward me."

"Oh, give her time, give her jewels, and plenty of new dresses. If they don't bring her round, I know nothing of women."

"How should you know anything of such women as Constance? Superior creatures of her stamp do not often appear in the life of a man like you," answered Church, rudely enough. "Come now, are you ready for work?"

"Yes, we will make the best of our time, while madame keeps in her sulks," said Crist. "When she makes up with you, there is an end of work, unless I manage to get along alone. Upon my word, Church, I never expected to find you so completely the slave of any woman."

"It strikes me that in this affair, I have managed to make her my slave," answered Church, pointing to a plate which Crist had arranged for printing. "At any rate, there is no need of troubling yourself with my home affairs so long as I let them fill your pocket."

"Exactly," answered Crist, laying down his mallet, "I'm not complaining. In fact, I rather envy you. She is a deuced pretty woman, and I know of more than one fellow up yonder who is raving about her."

"Those fellows up yonder can save themselves the trouble," answered Church, sharply. "Constance is altogether too fond of me, for any one else to make sure of a glance from her."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, indeed! She's not demonstrative, of course, before such fellows as you are, but I'm satisfied."

"That is a good thing—now for it!"

The noise of a press worked by these two men, broke in upon their conversation. But Constance stood at her post, and, shrouded by the darkness, looked in upon them full twenty minutes. Then she stole back to her room, with her pulse beating at fever heat.

Her watch lay upon the dressing-table; she snatched it up, glanced at the time, and laid it down again.

"Only eleven; I shall find him there," she said, ringing the bell with a violence that brought two servants to the door at once.

"The carriage," she said to the man; "come dress me," to her maid.

Very different was this toilet to the last at which we have seen Constance. She literally did not seem to care what garments the maid brought forth, but snatched at them in eager haste, and put them on with her own hands, tearing the costly lace and wrenching at the silk quite unconscious, or careless of the mischief she was doing.

In half an hour the woman swept down those stairs and into her carriage, with strange light in her eyes, and a burning red on her cheeks. Any one looking upon her then, would never have dreamed that she was an invalid.

There was a reception at the house of a leading Secretary that night, and in a few minutes Constance found herself almost alone in a dressing-room, with a graceful mulatto girl smoothing the train of her dress.

"Get a message taken to the Secretary of the Treasury, he is sure to be in one of the drawing-rooms—say I wish to speak with him."

The girl went, and directly a gentleman came up to the door where Constance stood, beating one gloved hand with his fan, and expressed his happiness at being summoned to lead her down stairs.

There was a presentation—a slow, interrupted sweep through the rooms—bright looks, pleasant words; then the belle of the evening disappeared, and with her the Secretary of the Treasury.

For half an hour, that carriage moved up and down the streets, the coachman could hear a sound of voices from within, asking and answering questions, from which he could gather no meaning; for, though the words were eager and sometimes sharp, he could only catch one distinctly now and then.

At last the man was ordered to stop at the Secretary's residence. The gentleman, with a latch key in his hand, got out, and Constance gave orders to be driven home.

Church met her in the hall, looking tired and excited, as if he had just come from some sharp exercise.

"In the name of Heaven, where have you been?" he demanded.

"To the reception," she answered, smiling upon him as she had not done for weeks.

"To the reception, and alone?"

"Yes, I took a fancy to go out; you were not to be found. Then I started alone, and sent for the Secretary of the Treasury to lead me in. It was very pleasant."

"But you complained so piteously of being ill."

"Yes, but it has done me good to go out, I feel better than you can imagine."

"This is very wild work, Constance, you should have waited till I came in. Crist and I only took a short walk."

"You must have walked fast. The evening is not very warm, but I can see drops glistening on your forehead."

Church took out his handkerchief and drew it hastily over his face.

"Yes," he said, "Crist always rushes on like a race horse, but I am glad to see you so much better."

"Thank you; I am sure to be better now." Then these two parted. Church went back to his accomplice in the subterranean vault, and Constance sat up all night in her room.

About dark the next day, a man might have been observed walking to and fro in the neighborhood of Mr. Church's dwelling, but no one took an interest in the matter except Constance. She saw him from her dressing-room window as she moved up and down the room like some caged animal, and a look of keen satisfaction shot into her heavy eyes.

Again Church came to her room, and urged her to come down. She refused, pleading weariness, and again the sound of Crist's voice and of retreating footsteps, reached her in the room where she sat.

About an hour after this, Constance heard a night-key turned in the lock, and a muffled sound in the hall as if more than one person had entered it.

"My night-key has done its work," she thought with a shiver. "How quietly they move!"

She was right. Everything was still as death in the house. Constance could hear the watch tick in her bosom, and her own heart beat like a muffled drum. Directly there was a great scuffle in the basement; sharp, harsh voices, and a sound as if some one were being dragged upstairs.

"Let me speak to my wife! Give me ten minutes, I must see her before you take me away."

There seemed to be consent to this, for Church came heavily up the stairs, and stood before Constance, white as death and trembling in all his limbs.

"I am in trouble, Constance, terrible trouble, but do not be frightened, come to me in the morning. You can help me, and I know you will. It is not like you to abandon your own husband in his misfortunes."

Constance looked in the man's face so quietly that it took away his breath.

"It was I who informed against you," she said, "partly from a love of justice, but altogether because I could break the bonds which shackles us together in no other way. You threatened, I have acted!"

"Oh, my God! my God! is the blow from her! Woman, woman, you have ruined a man who loved you better than his own salvation."

"And you have ruined a woman for whom there is no salvation," cried Constance, wringing her hands in wild excitement.

"Come, sir, it is time."

The officer came forward from the top of the stairs, as he spoke, and touched Church on the arm.

"I am ready," said the wretched man. "Nothing that can be done, will harm me much now. Constance, say farewell, kiss me for the last time. I loved you so, I loved you so! Only for that!"

Constance stood paralyzed, looking at him, fully conscious, perhaps, for the first time, of what she had done. He took her in his arms, and she did not resist; he pressed his quivering lips to hers, and met drops of blood instead of kisses.

"You see," she said, drawing a hand across her mouth. "We are both punished."

They took Church away, unresisting. His head drooped, his shoulders bent; ten years seemed to have settled on him since the officer's arm had first touched his person. When he went out of the door, Constance lay prone across the threshold of her own room, struggling desperately for breath.