ent up a second time, asking to see her on
business, she consented.

It was too soon to see callers, of course. But a Bishop was different.
And how could she refuse to admit him when she had admitted that odious
Captain Pratt only four days before. She hoped no one would become aware
of that fact. It was as well for her that she could not hear the remarks
of Selina and Ada Pratt, as they skated on the frozen meadows with half,
not the better-half, of Middleshire.

"Poor Vi Newhaven. Yes, she won't see a creature. She saw Algy for a few
minutes last week, but then he is an old friend, and does not count. He
said she was quite heart-broken. He was quite upset himself. He was so
fond of Ted Newhaven."

The Bishop would not even sit down. He said he was on the way to a
confirmation, and added that he had been entrusted with a letter for
her, and held it towards her.

"It is my husband's handwriting," she said, drawing back, with
instinctive fear.

"It is from your husband," said the Bishop, gently, softening somewhat
at the sight of the ravages which despair had made in the lovely face
since he had last seen it. "He asked me to give it into your own hand a
month after his death."

"Then he told you that--"

"He told me nothing, and I wish to hear nothing."

"I should like to confess all to you, to feel myself absolved," said
Lady Newhaven in a low voice, the letter in her trembling hand.

He looked at her, and he saw that she would not say all. She would
arrange details to suit herself, and would omit the main point
altogether, whatever it might be, if, as it was more than probable, it
told against herself. He would at least save her from the hypocrisy of a
half-confession.

"If in a month's time you wish to make a full confession to me," he
said, "I will hear it. But I solemnly charge you in the meanwhile to
speak to no one of this difficulty between you and your husband.
Whatever it may have been, it is past. If he sinned against you, he is
dead, and the least you can do is to keep silence. If you wronged
him"--Lady Newhaven shook her head vehemently--"if you wronged him,"
repeated the Bishop, his face hardening, "be silent for the sake of the
children. It is the only miserable reparation you can make him."

"You don't understand," she said, feebly.

"I know that he was a kindly, gentle-natured man, and that he died a
hard and bitter one," said the Bishop. "God knows what is in that
letter, but your husban