look, Lady Bassett, with swift tact, glided
away from the line she had intended to open, and, after merely thanking
him, and saying, "I believe you, dear," though she did not believe him,
she resumed, in a very impressive tone, "You see me worse than ever
to-day, because my mind is in great trouble. The time is come when I
must tell you a secret, which will cause you a bitter disappointment.
Why I send for you is, to see whether I cannot do something for you to
make you happy, in spite of that cruel disappointment."

Not a word from Reginald.

"Mr. Bassett--forgive me, if you can--for I am the most miserable woman
in England--you are not the heir to this place; you are not Sir Charles
Bassett's son."

"What!" shouted the young man.

Her fortitude gave way for a moment. She shook her head, in
confirmation of what she had said, and hid her burning face and
scalding tears in her white and wasted hands.

There was a long silence.

Reginald was asking himself if this could be true, or was it a maneuver
to put her favorite Compton over his head.

Lady Bassett looked up, and saw this paltry suspicion in his face. She
dried her tears directly, and went to a bureau, unlocked it, and
produced the manuscript confession she had prepared for her husband.

She bade Reginald observe the superscription and the date.

When he had done so, she took her scissors and opened it for him.

"Read what I wrote to my beloved husband at a time when I expected soon
to appear before my Judge."

She then sank upon the sofa, and lay there like a log; only, from time
to time, during the long reading, tears trickled from her eyes.

Reginald read the whole story, and saw the facts must be true: more
than that, being young, and a man, he could not entirely resist the
charm of a narrative in which a lady told at full the love, the grief,
the terror, the sufferings, of her heart, and the terrible temptation
under which she had gone astray.

He laid it down at last, and drew a long breath.

"It's a devil of a job for _me,"_ said he; "but I can't blame you. You
sold that Dick Bassett, and I hate him. But what is to become of _me?"_

"What I offer you is a life in which you will be happier than you ever
could be at Huntercombe. I mean to buy you vast pasture-fields in
Australia, and cattle to feed. Those noble pastures will be bounded
only by wild forests and hills. You will have swift horses to ride over
your own domain, or to gallop hundr