im to meet you, that you
may both speak evil and wrong of his low-born wife?"

"Hush!" said Ronald, sternly, grasping her arm. "Stop those wild
words, Dora! Are you mad?"

"No, not yet," she cried; "but this false woman will drive me so!"

Then Miss Charteris rose, her calm, grand face unruffled, not a quiver
on her proud lips.

"Stay, Miss Charteris, one moment, I pray you," said Ronald, "while my
wife apologizes for her folly."

"It is all true," cried Dora. "She wrote and asked you to meet her
here."

"Dora," said her husband, gravely, "did you read the letter Miss
Charteris wrote to me?"

"I did," she replied.

"And you deliberately came here to listen to what she had to say to
me?" he continued. "You deliberately listened to what you were never
intended to hear?"

His grave, stern dignity calmed her angry passion, and she looked
half-frightened into his quiet white face.

"Answer me!" he said. "Have you crouched behind those trees
deliberately and purposely to listen?

"Yes," she said; "and I would do so again if any one tried to take my
husband from me."

"Then may I be forgiven for the dishonor I have brought to my name and
race!" said Ronald. "May I be forgiven for thinking such a woman fit
to be my wife! Hear me," he continued, and the passion in his voice
changed to contempt: "Miss Charteris is your friend; she asked me to
meet her here that she might plead your cause, Dora--that she might
advise me to remain more at home with you, to go less into society, to
look more at the bright side of our married life, and be a better
husband than I have been lately; it was for that she summoned me here."

"I--I do not believe it," sobbed his wife.

"That is at your option," he replied coolly. "Miss Charteris, I should
kneel to ask your pardon for the insults you have received. If a man
had uttered them, I would avenge them. The woman who spoke them bears
my name. I entreat your pardon."

"It is granted," she replied; "your wife must have been mad, or she
would have known I was her friend. I deeply regret that my good
intentions have resulted so unhappily. Forget my annoyance, Mr. Earle,
and forgive Dora; she could not have known what she was saying."

"I forgive her," said Ronald; "but I never wish to look upon her face
again. I see nothing but dishonor there. My love died a violent death
ten minutes since. The woman so dead to all delicacy, all honor as to
listen and suspect will ne