in him at Quebec.

After one dreadful moment of confusion, her mind realised the outrage
implied in the stealing and reading of her letter.

In the earlier time of Carmina's sojourn in the house, Mrs. Gallilee had
accused her of deliberate deceit. She had instantly resented the insult
by leaving the room. The same spirit in her--the finely-strung
spirit that vibrates unfelt in gentle natures, while they live in
peace--steadied those quivering nerves, roused that failing courage. She
met the furious eyes fixed on her, without shrinking; she spoke gravely
and firmly. "The letter is mine," she said. "How did you come by it?"

"How dare you ask me?"

"How dare _you_ steal my letter?"

Mrs. Gallilee tore open the fastening of her dress at the throat, to get
breath. "You impudent bastard!" she burst out, in a frenzy of rage.

Waiting patiently at the window, Benjulia heard her. "Hold your damned
tongue!" he cried. "She's your niece."

Mrs. Gallilee turned on him: her fury broke into a screaming laugh. "My
niece?" she repeated. "You lie--and you know it! She's the child of an
adulteress! She's the child of her mother's lover!"

The door opened as those horrible words passed her lips. The nurse and
her husband entered the room.

She was in no position to see them: she was incapable of hearing them.
The demon in her urged her on: she attempted to reiterate the detestable
falsehood. Her first word died away in silence. The lean brown fingers
of the Italian woman had her by the throat--held her as the claws of
a tigress might have held her. Her eyes rolled in the mute agony of an
appeal for help. In vain! in vain! Not a cry, not a sound, had drawn
attention to the attack. Her husband's eyes were fixed, horror-struck,
on the victim of her rage. Benjulia had crossed the room to the sofa,
when Carmina heard the words spoken of her mother. From that moment, he
was watching the case. Mr. Gallilee alone looked round--when the nurse
tightened her hold in a last merciless grasp; dashed the insensible
woman on the floor; and, turning back, fell on her knees at her
darling's feet.

She looked up in Carmina's face.

A ghastly stare, through half-closed eyes, showed death in life, blankly
returning her look. The shock had struck Carmina with a stony calm. She
had not started, she had not swooned. Rigid, immovable, there she sat;
voiceless and tearless; insensible even to touch; her arms hanging down;
her clenched hands resting on