mething was
wrong. Her ordinary manner was the manner of an unusually placid and
self-restrained person. Her temperament had little of the liveliness
which we associate in England with the French nature. She was not ready
with her laugh; and in all my previous experience, I had never yet known
her to cry. Now, for the first time, I saw the quiet face disturbed;
I saw tears in the pretty brown eyes. She ran to meet me, and laid her
head on my breast, and burst into a passionate fit of weeping that shook
her from head to foot.

Could she by any human possibility have heard of the coming change in my
life? Was she aware, before I had opened my lips, of the hard necessity
which had brought me to the house?

It was simply impossible; the thing could not be.

I waited until her first burst of emotion had worn itself out. Then
I asked--with an uneasy conscience, with a sinking heart--what had
happened to distress her.

She drew herself away from me, sighing heavily, and gave me the open
letter which I had seen in her hand.

"Read that," she said. "And remember I told you what might happen when
we first met."

I read the letter.

It was signed in initials only; but the writer plainly revealed himself
as the man who had deserted her. He had repented; he had returned to
her. In proof of his penitence he was willing to do her the justice
which he had hitherto refused--he was willing to marry her, on the
condition that she would engage to keep the marriage a secret, so
long as his parents lived. Submitting this proposal, he waited to know
whether she would consent, on her side, to forgive and forget.

I gave her back the letter in silence. This unknown rival had done me
the service of paving the way for our separation. In offering her the
atonement of marriage, he had made it, on my part, a matter of duty
to _her_, as well as to myself, to say the parting words. I felt this
instantly. And yet, I hated him for helping me.

She took my hand, and led me to the sofa. We sat down, side by side. Her
face was composed to a sad tranquillity. She was quiet; she was herself
again.

"I have refused to see him," she said, "until I had first spoken to you.
You have read his letter. What do you say?"

I could make but one answer. It was my duty to tell her what my own
position was in the plainest terms. I did my duty--leaving her free to
decide on the future for herself. Those sad words said, it was useless
to prolong the wretched