hard upon a page which seemed more hastily written than
the rest, for it was blotted and broken up, evidently full of
exclamations and bursts of passionate thought.

"Read that!" said the woman, pressing her finger upon the page till the
blood was strained back to the wrist, leaving the hand pallid as marble.
"Read that!"

The General took up the journal, and read. Again that expression of
white rage crept over his face, and a smile rose up to his mouth,
coiling around it like a viper.

"Yes," he said, hoarsely. "This means something. It is her own
confession."

"It is enough to crush her forever!" cried the woman.

"Yes, yes, that society may laugh at me as a dupe; vengeance is sweet,
but I cannot afford it. To assail her, would be to arm him against me."

"And you will submit to this wrong?" cried the woman, while her eyes
flashed fire and her lips writhed in scorn.

"Submit, no--my fiery Zillah; but the richest enjoyments of life should
be tasted daintily--a noisy revenge is not to my taste."

"But you will live with this woman yet?"

The General smiled meaningly.

"She will, perhaps, remain under my roof."

"And you will not take away the name she has disgraced?" persisted
Zillah, pale with suspense.

"You are a little too fast there, my friend. A name is never dishonored
by anything kept secret within the bosom of a family. Disgrace is the
scorn of society, and how can the world scorn that which it does not
know?"

"But it shall know. I will myself proclaim this infamy!" cried the
woman, clenching her hand, and shaking from head to foot with internal
rage.

The General cast on her a look half-surprised, half-amused.

"Ah, Zillah, and who on earth of our world can you know, or--if that
were possible--what would your word be against the life of a woman so
universally admired and beloved, as my wife has been?"

"But, I will prove what I say by that book."

"Which is just now in my possession, where it is likely to remain. Be
content, beautiful Zillah. The fate of Mabel Harrington rests with me. I
shall not trust her to your jealous rage."

"To my jealous rage!" repeated Zillah, hardening down in her passion
till she seemed turning to marble from a single effort of will. "I
thought of your honor, not of my own wrongs. I struggle against contempt
for the man whom I have so long and so miserably loved."

"Contempt, Zillah?"

"Yes, sir, contempt. Even your slave has a right to despise the man who