paper with her finger. Besides, having learnt to
read by touch (that is to say with raised characters), just as she had
learnt to write--even if her eyes had been sufficiently recovered to
enable her to distinguish small objects, nothing but practice could have
taught her to use them for purposes of correspondence.

These considerations, though they did not strike me at the time, occurred
to me later in the day, and altered my opinion to a certain extent. I now
interpreted the change of color which I had noticed in her as the outward
sign of suspicion on her side--suspicion that I had a motive of my own in
interrogating her. For the rest, my doubts of Nugent remained unmoved.
Try as I might, I could not divest my mind of the idea that he was
playing me false, and that in one way or another he had contrived, not
only to communicate with Lucilla, but to persuade her to keep me in
ignorance of what he had done.

I deferred to the next day any attempt at making further discoveries.

The last thing at night, I had a momentary impulse to question Zillah.
Reflection soon checked it. My experience of the nurse's character told
me that she would take refuge in flat denial--and would then inform her
mistress of what had happened. I knew enough of Lucilla to know (after
what had already passed between us) that a quarrel with me would follow.
Things were bad enough already, without making them worse in that way.
When the morning came, I resolved to keep a watchful eye on the village
post-office, and on the movements of the nurse.

When the morning came, there was a letter for me from abroad.

The address was in the handwriting of one of my sisters. We usually wrote
to each other at intervals of a fortnight or three weeks. This letter had
followed its predecessor after an interval of less than one week. What
did it mean? Good news or bad?

I opened the letter.

It enclosed a telegram, announcing that my poor dear father was lying
dangerously wounded at Marseilles. My sisters had already gone to him:
they implored me to follow them without one moment of needless delay. Is
it necessary to tell the story of this horrible calamity? Of course it
begins with a woman and an elopement. Of course it ends with a young man
and a duel. Have I not told you already?--Papa was so susceptible; Papa
was so brave. Oh, dear, dear! the old story over again. You have an
English proverb: "What is bred in the bone--" etcetera, etcetera. Let us
drop