of her own accord; for it was intolerable
that he should think of any external pressure as having brought her to
avowal. But no! he would not think that. The understanding between them
was so complete that no deceptive array of circumstances could ever make
her motives obscure to him. She let herself rest a moment in the
thought....

Presently she heard him moving in the next room--he had come back to
dress for dinner. She would go to him now, at once--she could not bear
this weight on her mind the whole evening. She pushed back her chair,
crumpling the letter in her hand; but as she did so, her eyes again fell
on her reflection. She could not go to her husband with such a face! If
she was not afraid, why did she look like that?

Well--she was afraid! It would be easier and simpler to admit it. She
was afraid--afraid for the first time--afraid for her own happiness! She
had had just eight months of happiness--it was horrible to think of
losing it so soon.... Losing it? But why should she lose it? The letter
must have affected her brain...all her thoughts were in a blur of
fear.... Fear of what? Of the man who understood her as no one else
understood her? The man to whose wisdom and mercy she trusted as the
believer trusts in God? This was a kind of abominable nightmare--even
Amherst's image had been distorted in her mind! The only way to clear
her brain, to recover the normal sense of things, was to go to him now,
at once, to feel his arms about her, to let his kiss dispel her
fears.... She rose with a long breath of relief.

She had to cross the length of the room to reach his door, and when she
had gone half-way she heard him knock.

"May I come in?"

She was close to the fire-place, and a bright fire burned on the hearth.

"Come in!" she answered; and as she did so, she turned and dropped
Wyant's letter into the fire. Her hand had crushed it into a little
ball, and she saw the flames spring up and swallow it before her husband
entered.

It was not that she had changed her mind--she still meant to tell him
everything. But to hold the letter was like holding a venomous
snake--she wanted to exterminate it, to forget that she had ever seen
the blotted repulsive characters. And she could not bear to have
Amherst's eyes rest on it, to have him know that any man had dared to
write to her in that tone. What vile meanings might not be read between
Wyant's phrases? She had a right to tell the story in her own way--the