and wife had been entirely deceived.

Love, considered under its poetical aspect, is the union of passion
and imagination. I had foolishly believed that this calm, sweet-voiced
woman had loved me, but those letters made it plain that I had been
utterly fooled. "Le mystere de l'existence," said Madame de Stael to
her daughter, "c'est la rapport de nos erreurs avec nos peines."

And although there was in her, in her character, and in her terrible
situation, a concentration of all the interests that belong to
humanity, she was nevertheless a murderess.

"The truth is here," remarked my friend, laying his hand upon the heap
of tender correspondence which had been brought to such an abrupt
conclusion by the letter I have printed in its entirety. "It is a
strange, romantic story, to say the least."

"Then you really believe that she is guilty?" I exclaimed, hoarsely.

He shrugged his shoulders significantly, but no word escaped his lips.

In the silence that fell between us, I glanced at him. His chin was
sunk upon his breast, his brows knit, his thin fingers toying idly
with the plain gold ring.

"Well?" I managed to exclaim at last. "What shall we do?"

"Do?" he echoed. "What can we do, my dear fellow? That woman's future
is in your hands."

"Why in mine?" I asked. "In yours also, surely?"

"No," he answered resolutely, taking my hand and grasping it warmly.
"No, Ralph; I know--I can see how you are suffering. You believed her
to be a pure and honest woman--one above the common run--a woman fit
for helpmate and wife. Well, I, too, must confess myself very much
misled. I believed her to be all that you imagined; indeed, if her
face be any criterion, she is utterly unspoiled by the world and its
wickedness. In my careful studies in physiognomy I have found that
very seldom does a perfect face like hers cover an evil heart. Hence,
I confess, that this discovery has amazed me quite as much as it has
you. I somehow feel----"

"I don't believe it!" I cried, interrupting him. "I don't believe,
Ambler, that she murdered him--I can't believe it. Her's is not the
face of a murderess."

"Faces sometimes deceive," he said quietly. "Recollect that a clever
woman can give a truthful appearance to a lie where a man utterly
fails."

"I know--I know. But even with this circumstantial proof I can't and
won't believe it."

"Please yourself, my dear fellow," he answered. "I know it is hard to
believe ill of a woman whom one