ith
broken clasps that lay before him, and spoke. There was something more
than bitterness in his voice; it was harsh with poisonous malice.

"Mr. James Harrington, you loved my wife before I married her," he said,
with rude abruptness, that made his auditor rise from his chair, pale
and aghast.

"Sir, sir!" broke from his white lips.

"Before and since; before and since! Do you understand, sir, your
hypocrisy is at last exposed? I say again"----

"Stop!" said James Harrington, lifting his hand with authority, though
it shook like an aspen. "Stop, sir; you are dealing with things that
only God himself has power to scrutinize. For my acts, sir, you have a
right to arraign me; and there I will answer you with the frankness of a
little child, for as childhood they are innocent."

James Harrington stood upright as he spoke, with one arm folded across
his chest, guarding the secret which that old man was attempting to
wrench from his heart with such ruthless cruelty.

"Innocent!" sneered the old man; "innocent! But I do not blame you, sir!
Among men of honor, it is a gentleman's duty to lie broadly and boldly
where a lady's reputation is at stake. You have enough of the Harrington
blood in your veins to deny this woman's guilt with sufficient
indignation; but I, sir, am not mad or blind enough to believe you."

The very might of his emotions kept James Harrington still as he
listened to these scathing words. He sat down very quietly, and gazed
into the old man's face, shocked to the soul, yet unable to comprehend
the reality of a charge so atrocious.

"Will you explain?" he faltered.

"I have explained sufficiently, sir! You loved the lady, and she"----

"Hush! sir; say what you will of me, but do not dare to utter Mabel
Harrington's name in this connection. The angels of Heaven are not more
blameless than that woman."

"Indeed!" sneered the old man again, dashing open the book before him,
and clenching his hand fiercely among its leaves. "Read, sir, read!"

James Harrington reached out his hands, and took the volume held toward
him; it had been opened at random, and the passage that met his eye
contained a pathetic appeal to Heaven for help to conquer the passion
which Mabel confessed to herself as a grievous fault.

The blood rushed athwart James Harrington's forehead as he read; for
through the mist that floated over his eyes and brain, he recognized
Mabel's handwriting, and felt how coarsely her unhappines