ing cleared me from his calumny. I
remain before you as a guilty person, and I can do nothing more than
declare once more that we--you and I, are the victims of a scoundrel. I
have never spoken with Wolff of your fortune nor called in his
intervention in any way. I leave the rest to you and to your
consideration. I shall never force you to return to me, neither shall I
ever consent to a divorce. Come home, Gertrude, come soon and all shall
be forgotten. The house is empty, and my heart is still more so--have
faith in me again. Your FRANK."'

She had just finished reading these words when Uncle Henry came in.
The little gentleman had evidently dined well--his face shone with
good-humor.

"Still here?" he cried. And as she did not reply he looked at her more
closely. "Well, you are not angry again?"

But the young wife swayed suddenly and Uncle Henry sprang towards her
only just in time to keep her from falling, and called anxiously for
Johanna. They laid the slender figure on the sofa and bathed her
temples with cold water.

"Speak to me, child!" he cried, "speak to me!" and he repeated it till
she opened her eyes.

"I cannot," she said after awhile.

"What?" asked the asthmatic old gentleman.

"Go to him I _can_not! Must I?"

"Merciful Heavens!" groaned Uncle Henry, "do be reasonable! Of course
you must unless you want him to be ruined."

"I must?" she repeated, adding as if for her own comfort, "No, I must
not! I cannot force myself to have confidence in him, I cannot pretend
what I do not feel. No, I must not!"

And she sprang up and ran through the room to the door, trembling with
excitement.

"Oh, ta, ta!" The old man ran his hands through his hair. "Then stay
here! Let your house and home go to ruin, and the husband to whom you
have pledged your faith into the bargain."

"Yes, yes," she murmured, "you are right, but I cannot!"

And she grasped the little purse in her pocket which held that fatal
letter.

It seemed as if this brought her back at once to herself. She grew
quiet, she lay back on her lounge and rested her head on the cushion.

"Pardon me, uncle--I know what I am doing."

"That is exactly what you don't know," he muttered.

"Yes, I do," was the pettish reply. "Or do you think I ought to go
there and beg him with folded hands to take me back into favor again?"
And something like scorn curved her lips.

"It would be the most sensible thing you could do," replied Uncle
Henry,