that had been
the cause of her death. They were all blotted and blurred, and sodden
with the water, but there were whole sentences in the inner folds that
were sufficient for him to recognize his wife's handwriting, and to see
what was the drift and the meaning of them.

Whom they were written to, when they had been penned, he neither knew nor
cared to discover; it was enough for him that they had been written by
her, and that they were altogether shameful and sinful. With a deep and
sickened disgust, he set fire to the whole packet, and scattered the
blackened and smouldering ashes into the empty grate. They had cost a
human life, those reckless, sinful letters; but for them, Vera would not
have died.

The terrible tragedy came to an end at last. They buried her beneath the
coloured mosaic floor of the new chancel, which Sir John had built at her
desire; and Marion smothered herself and her children in crape, and
people shook their heads and sighed when they spoke of her; and Shadonake
was shut up, and the Millers all went to London; and then the world went
its way, and after a time it forgot her; and Vera Nevill's place knew her
no more.

* * * * *

After Christmas there was a wedding in Eaton Square; a wedding small and
not at all gay. Indeed, Geraldine Miller considered her sister next door
to a lunatic, and she told herself it would be hardly worth while to be
married at all if there was to be no more fuss made over her marriage
than over Beatrice's. For there were no bridesmaids and no wedding
guests, only all the Millers, from the eldest down to the youngest, uncle
Tom, and an ancient Miss Esterworth, unearthed from the other end of
England for the occasion; and there were also a Mr. and Mrs. Pryme,
a grave and aged couple--uncle and aunt to the bridegroom.

There was, however, one remarkable feature at this particular wedding:
when the family party came down into the dining-room to take their places
for the conventional breakfast upon the plate of the bride's father were
to be seen some very curious things.

These were a faded white lace parasol with pink bows; a pair of soiled
grey _peau de suede_ gloves, and a little black wisp of a spotted net
veil.

"Bless my soul!" said the member for Meadowshire, putting up his
eye-glasses; "what on earth is all this?"

"I think you have seen them before, papa," says the bride, demurely,
whilst uncle Tom bursts into a loud and heart