an's memory to read at such length to a stranger what was
intended for your eye alone?"

"Well, yes," said Henchard. "By not giving her name I make it an example
of all womankind, and not a scandal to one."

"If I were you I would destroy them," said Farfrae, giving more thought
to the letters than he had hitherto done. "As another man's wife it
would injure the woman if it were known.

"No, I shall not destroy them," murmured Henchard, putting the letters
away. Then he arose, and Lucetta heard no more.

She went back to her bedroom in a semi-paralyzed state. For very fear
she could not undress, but sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. Would
Henchard let out the secret in his parting words? Her suspense was
terrible. Had she confessed all to Donald in their early acquaintance he
might possibly have got over it, and married her just the same--unlikely
as it had once seemed; but for her or any one else to tell him now would
be fatal.

The door slammed; she could hear her husband bolting it. After looking
round in his customary way he came leisurely up the stairs. The spark in
her eyes well-nigh went out when he appeared round the bedroom door. Her
gaze hung doubtful for a moment, then to her joyous amazement she saw
that he looked at her with the rallying smile of one who had just been
relieved of a scene that was irksome. She could hold out no longer, and
sobbed hysterically.

When he had restored her Farfrae naturally enough spoke of Henchard. "Of
all men he was the least desirable as a visitor," he said; "but it is my
belief that he's just a bit crazed. He has been reading to me a long
lot of letters relating to his past life; and I could do no less than
indulge him by listening."

This was sufficient. Henchard, then, had not told. Henchard's last
words to Farfrae, in short, as he stood on the doorstep, had been these:
"Well--I'm obliged to 'ee for listening. I may tell more about her some
day."

Finding this, she was much perplexed as to Henchard's motives in opening
the matter at all; for in such cases we attribute to an enemy a power
of consistent action which we never find in ourselves or in our friends;
and forget that abortive efforts from want of heart are as possible to
revenge as to generosity.

Next morning Lucetta remained in bed, meditating how to parry this
incipient attack. The bold stroke of telling Donald the truth, dimly
conceived, was yet too bold; for she dreaded lest in doing so he, like