There was little sleep for me that night. I passed most of the

time in smoking and walking up and down the room. My one relief
was afforded by Traveler--he begged so hard to go to London with

me, I could not resist him. The dog always sleeps in my room. His
surprise at my extraordinary restlessness (ending in downright

anxiety and alarm) was expressed in his eyes, and in his little
whinings and cries, quite as intelligibly as if he had put his

meaning into words. Who first called a dog a dumb creature? It
must have been a man, I think--and a thoroughly unlovable man,

too, from a dog's point of view.
Soon after ten, on the morning of the 28th, she entered my

sitting-room.
In her personal appearance, I saw a change for the worse:

produced, I suppose, by the troubles that have tried her sorely,
poor thing. There was a sad loss of delicacy in her features, and

of purity in her complexion. Even her dress--I should certainly
not have noticed it in any other woman--seemed to be loose and

slovenly. In the agitation of the moment, I forgot the long
estrangement between us; I half lifted my hand to take hers, and

checked myself. Was I mistaken in supposing that she yielded to
the same impulse, and resisted it as I did? She concealed her

embarrassment, if she felt any, by patting the dog.
"I am ashamed that you should have taken the journey to London in

this wintry weather--" she began.
It was impossible, in her situation, to let her assume this

commonplace tone with me. "I sincerely feel for you," I said,
"and sincerely wish to help you, if I can."

She looked at me for the first time. Did she believe me? or did
she still doubt? Before I could decide, she took a letter from

her pocket, opened it, and handed it to me.
"Women often exaggerate their troubles," she said. "It is perhaps

an unfair trial of your patience--but I should like you to
satisfy yourself that I have not made the worst of my situation.

That letter will place it before you in Mr. Romayne's own words.
Read it, except where the page is turned down."

It was her husband's letter of farewell.
The language was scrupulously delicate and considerate. But to my

mind it entirely failed to disguise the fanatical cruelty of the
man's resolution, addressed to his wife. In substance, it came to

this:--
"He had discovered the marriage at Brussels, which she had

deliberately concealed from him when he took her for his wife.
She had afterward persisted in that concealment, under

circumstances which made it impossible that he could ever trust
her again." (This no doubt referred to her ill-advised reception

of me, as a total stranger, at Ten Acres Lodge.) "In the
miserable break-up of his domestic life, the Church to which he

now belonged offered him no t only her divineconsolation, but
the honor, above all earthly distinctions, of serving the cause

of religion in the sacred ranks of the priesthood. Before his
departure for Rome he bade her a last farewell in this world, and

forgave her the injuries that she had inflicted on him. For her
sake he asked leave to say some few words more. In the first

place, he desired to do her every justice, in a worldly sense.
Ten Acres Lodge was offered to her as a free gift for her

lifetime, with a sufficient income for all her wants. In the
second place, he was anxious that she should not misinterpret his

motives. Whatever his opinion of her conduct might be, he did not
rely on it as affording his only justification for leaving her.

Setting personal feeling aside, he felt religious scruples
(connected with his marriage) which left him no other alternative

than the separation on which he had resolved. He would briefly
explain those scruples, and mention his authority for

entertaining them, before he closed his letter."
There the page was turned down, and the explanation was concealed

from me.
A faint color stole over her face as I handed the letter back to

her.
"It is needless for you to read the end," she said. "You know,

under his own hand, that he has left me; and (if such a thing
pleads with you in his favor) you also know that he is liberal in

providing for his deserted wife."
I attempted to speak. She saw in my face how I despised him, and

stopped me.
"Whatever you may think of his conduct," she continued, "I beg

that you will not speak of it to me. May I ask your opinion (now
you have read his letter) on another matter, in which my own

conduct is concerned? In former days--"
She paused, poor soul, in evidentconfusion and distress.

"Why speak of those days?" I ventured to say.
"I must speak of them. In former days, I think you were told that

my father's will provided for my mother and for me. You know that
we have enough to live on?"

I had heard of it, at the time of our betrothal--when the
marriage settlement was in preparation. The mother and daughter

had each a little income of a few hundreds a year. The exact
amount had escaped my memory.

After answering her to this effect, I waited to hear more.
She suddenly became silent; the most painfulembarrassment showed

itself in her face and manner. "Never mind the rest," she said,
mastering her confusion after an interval. "I have had some hard

trials to bear; I forget things--" she made an effort to finish
the sentence, and gave it up, and called to the dog to come to

her. The tears were in her eyes, and that was the way she took to
hide them from me.

In general, I am not quick at reading the minds of others--but I
thought I understood Stella. Now that we were face to face, the

impulse to trust me had, for the moment, got the better of her
caution and her pride; she was half ashamed of it, half inclined

to follow it. I hesitated no longer. The time for which I had
waited--the time to prove, without any indelicacy on my side,

that I had never been unworthy of her--had surely come at last.
"Do you remember my reply to your letter about Father Benwell?" I

asked.
"Yes--every word of it."

"I promised, if you ever had need of me, to prove that I had
never been unworthy of your confidence. In your present

situation, I can honorably keep my promise. Shall I wait till you
are calmer? or shall I go on at once?"

"At once!"
"When your mother and your friends took you from me," I resumed,

"if you had shown any hesitation--"
She shuddered. The image of my unhappy wife, vindictively

confronting us on the church steps, seemed to be recalled to her
memory. "Don't go back to it!" she cried. "Spare me, I entreat

you."
I opened the writing-case in which I keep the papers sent to me

by the Rector of Belhaven, and placed them on the table by which
she was sitting.. The more plainly and briefly I spoke now, the

better I thought it might be for both of us.
"Since we parted at Brussels," I said, "my wife has died. Here is

a copy of the medicalcertificate of her death."
Stella refused to look at it. "I don't understand such things,"

she answered faintly. "What is this?"
She took up my wife's death-bed confession.

"Read it," I said.