e hundred and fifty thousand dollars--besides that
balance of L1200 and upward--six thousand dollars more."

Such was Obed Chute's idea, and Zillah accepted it as the only true
solution. Any other solution would force her to believe that Hilda
had been a hypocrite all her life--that her devotion was a sham, and
her love a mockery. Such a thing seemed incredible, and it seemed far
more natural to her that Hilda had acted from some mad impulse of
love in obedience to the strong temptation held out by a lover. Yes,
she thought, she had placed herself in his power, and did whatever he
told her, without thinking of the consequences. The plot, then, must
be all Gualtier's. Hilda herself never, never, never could have
formed such a plan against one who loved her. She could not have
known what she was doing. She could not have deliberately sold her
life and robbed her. So Zillah tried to think; but, amidst these
thoughts, there arose the memory of that letter from Naples--that
picture of the voyage, every word of which showed such devilish
ingenuity, and such remorseless pertinacity in deceiving. Love may do
much, and tempt to much, she thought; but, after all, could such a
letter have emanated from any one whose heart was not utterly and
wholly bad and corrupt? All this was terrible to Zillah.

"If I could but redress your wrongs," said Obed, one day--"if you
would only give me permission, I would start to-morrow for England,
and I would track this pair of villains till I compelled them to
disgorge their plunder, and one of them, at least, should make
acquaintance with the prison hulks or Botany Bay. But you will not
let me," he added, reproachfully.

Zillah looked at him imploringly.

"I have a secret," said she, "a secret which I dare not divulge. It
involves others. I have sacrificed every thing for this. I can not
mention it even to you. And now all is lost, and I have nothing.
There is no help for it, none." She seemed to be speaking to herself.
"For then," she continued, "if they were hunted down, names would
come out, and then all would be known. And rather than have all
known"--her voice grew higher and sterner as she spoke, expressing a
desperate resolve--"rather than have all known, I would die--yes, by
a death as terrible as that which stared me in the face when I was
drifting in the schooner!"

Obed Chute looked at her. Pity was on his face. He held out his hand
and took hers. "It shall not be known," said h