open
it."

Nurse Rosemary opened it. "It is a very long letter, Mr. Dalmain."

"Indeed? Will you please read it to me, Miss Gray."

A tense moment of silence followed. Nurse Rosemary lifted the letter;
but her voice suddenly refused to respond to her will. Garth waited
without further word.

Then Nurse Rosemary said: "Indeed, sir, it seems a most private letter.
I find it difficult to read it to you."

Garth heard the distress in her voice, and turned to her kindly.

"Never mind, my dear child. It in no way concerns you. It is a private
letter to me; but my only means of hearing it is through your eyes, and
from your lips. Besides, the lady, whose seal is a plumed helmet, can
have nothing of a very private nature to say to me."

"Ah, but she has," said Nurse Rosemary, brokenly.

Garth considered this in silence.

Then: "Turn over the page," he said, "and tell me the signature."

"There are many pages," said Nurse Rosemary.

"Turn over the pages then," said Garth, sternly. "Do not keep me
waiting. How is that letter signed?"

"YOUR WIFE," whispered Nurse Rosemary.

There was a petrifying quality about the silence which followed. It
seemed as if those two words, whispered into Garth's darkness, had
turned him to stone.

At last he stretched out his hand. "Will you give me that letter, if
you please, Miss Gray? Thank you. I wish to be alone for a quarter of
an hour. I shall be glad if you will be good enough to sit in the
dining-room, and stop any one from coming into this room. I must be
undisturbed. At the end of that time kindly return."

He spoke so quietly that Jane's heart sank within her. Some display of
agitation would have been reassuring. This was the man who, bowing his
dark head towards the crucifixion window, said: "I accept the cross."
This was the man, whose footsteps never once faltered as he strode down
the aisle, and left her. This was the man, who had had the strength,
ever since, to treat that episode between her and himself, as
completely closed; no word of entreaty; no sign of remembrance; no hint
of reproach. And this was the man to whom she had signed herself: "Your
wife."

In her whole life, Jane had never known fear. She knew it now.

As she silently rose and left him, she stole one look at his face. He
was sitting perfectly still; the letter in his hand. He had not turned
his head toward her as he took it. His profile might have been a
beautiful carving in white ivory. There