les compared with the risks that threaten
us in the future, but the venture shall be tried, Marian, for all that.
I am not rash enough to measure myself against such a man as the Count
before I am well prepared for him. I have learnt patience--I can wait
my time. Let him believe that his message has produced its effect--let
him know nothing of us, and hear nothing of us--let us give him full
time to feel secure--his own boastful nature, unless I seriously
mistake him, will hasten that result. This is one reason for waiting,
but there is another more important still. My position, Marian,
towards you and towards Laura ought to be a stronger one than it is now
before I try our last chance."

She leaned near to me, with a look of surprise.

"How can it be stronger?" she asked.

"I will tell you," I replied, "when the time comes. It has not come
yet--it may never come at all. I may be silent about it to Laura for
ever--I must be silent now, even to YOU, till I see for myself that I
can harmlessly and honourably speak. Let us leave that subject. There
is another which has more pressing claims on our attention. You have
kept Laura, mercifully kept her, in ignorance of her husband's
death----"

"Oh, Walter, surely it must be long yet before we tell her of it?"

"No, Marian. Better that you should reveal it to her now, than that
accident, which no one can guard against, should reveal it to her at
some future time. Spare her all the details--break it to her very
tenderly, but tell her that he is dead."

"You have a reason, Walter, for wishing her to know of her husband's
death besides the reason you have just mentioned?"

"I have."

"A reason connected with that subject which must not be mentioned
between us yet?--which may never be mentioned to Laura at all?"

She dwelt on the last words meaningly. When I answered her in the
affirmative, I dwelt on them too.

Her face grew pale. For a while she looked at me with a sad,
hesitating interest. An unaccustomed tenderness trembled in her dark
eyes and softened her firm lips, as she glanced aside at the empty
chair in which the dear companion of all our joys and sorrows had been
sitting.

"I think I understand," she said. "I think I owe it to her and to you,
Walter, to tell her of her husband's death."

She sighed, and held my hand fast for a moment--then dropped it
abruptly, and left the room. On the next day Laura knew that his death
had released her,