without concealment, against herself--to the utter and abject
wretchedness with which she awaited his decision. It was thus that she
had kept faith with him the moment his back was turned! Such were the
safeguards afforded by a woman's sense of honor! What a fool he had
been, to imagine that any woman could remain true to her promise so soon
as some other object of flirtation and incipient love-making came in her
way!

He looked at the letter again: he could scarcely believe it to be in her
handwriting. This the quiet, reasonable, gentle and timid Wenna
Rosewarne, whose virtues were almost a trifle too severe? The despair
and remorse of the letter did not touch him--he was too angry and
indignant over the insult to himself--but it astonished him. The
passionate emotion of those closely-written pages he could scarcely
connect with the shy, frank, kindly little girl he remembered: it was a
cry of agony from a tortured woman, and he knew at least that for her
the old quiet time was over.

He knew not what to do. All this that had happened was new to him: it
was old and gone by in England, and who could tell what further
complications might have arisen? But his anger required some vent: he
went in-doors, called for a lamp, and sat down and wrote with a hard and
resolute look on his face:

"I have received your letter. I am not surprised. You are a woman,
and I ought to have known that a woman's promise is of value so
long as you are by her side to see that she keeps it. You ask what
reparation you can make: I ask if there is any that you can
suggest. No: you have done what cannot be undone. Do you think a
man would marry a woman who is in love with, or has been in love
with, another man, even if he could overlook her breach of faith
and the shameless thoughtlessness of her conduct? My course is
clear, at all events. I give you back the promise that you did not
know how to keep; and now you can go and ask the young man who has
been making a holiday toy of you whether he will be pleased to
marry you.

"RICHARD ROSCORLA."

He sealed and addressed this letter, still with the firm, hard look
about his face: then he summoned a servant--a tall, red-haired Irishman.
He did not hesitate for a moment: "Look here, Sullivan: the English
mails go out to-morrow morning. You must ride down to the post-office as
hard as you can go; and if you're a few minutes