reply.
It was of the injustice done to her that she complained in the words
which she was constantly framing for herself; but it was the apparent
want of affection which was deepest in her heart. Though he had been
twice as cruel, twice as hard, she would have been less unhappy had
she succeeded in drawing from him one word of affection. "What can he
do for my comfort?" she said to herself again and again. "He means
that if I want money I shall have it, so that he may avoid the
disgrace of leaving his wife and his child unprovided for. I will
not have his money, unless he also come himself." She would not even
write to Lady Grant, or let her know that she had received a letter
from her husband. "Oh, yes; I have heard from him. There is his
letter," and she flung the document across the table to her mother.
Having done so she at once left the room, so that there should be no
discussion on the matter. "That there should be not a word of love in
it; not a single word," she went on saying to herself. "How hard must
be a man's heart, and how changeable! He certainly did love me, and
now it has all gone, simply through an unworthy suspicion on his own
part."

But here she showed how little able she had been as yet to read the
riddle of a man's heart,--how ignorant she had been of the difficulty
under which a man may labour to express his own feeling! That
which we call reticence is more frequently an inability than an
unwillingness to express itself. The man is silent, not because he
would not have the words spoken, but because he does not know the
fitting words with which to speak. His dignity and his so-called
manliness are always near to him, and are guarded, so that he should
not melt into open ruth. So it was with Mr. Western. Living there
all alone at Dresden, seeing no society, passing much of his time
in a vain attempt to satisfy himself with music and with pictures,
he spent all his hours in thinking how necessary his wife had made
herself to his comfort during the few months that they were married.
He had already taught himself to endeavour to make excuses for
her,--though in doing so he always fell back at last on the enormity
of her offence. Though he loved her, though he might probably pardon
her in his weakness, it was impossible that the sin should be washed
out. His anger still burned very hotly, because he could not quite
understand the manner in which the sin had been committed. There was
a secret, and he