e that had been broken? And was the
change that I had noticed in Major Fitz-David's face produced by some
past association in connection with it, which in some way affected
me? It might or might not be so. I was little disposed to indulge in
speculation on this topic while the far more serious question of the
initials confronted me on the back of the photograph.

"S. and E. M.?" Those last two letters might stand for the initials of
my husband's name--his true name--Eustace Macallan. In this case the
first letter ("S.") in all probability indicated _her_ name. What right
had she to associate herself with him in that manner? I considered a
little--my memory exerted itself--I suddenly called to mind that Eustace
had sisters. He had spoken of them more than once in the time before our
marriage. Had I been mad enough to torture myself with jealousy of my
husband's sister? It might well be so; "S." might stand for his sister's
Christian name. I felt heartily ashamed of myself as this new view of
the matter dawned on me. What a wrong I had done to them both in my
thoughts! I turned the photograph, sadly and penitently, to examine the
portraits again with a kinder and truer appreciation of them.

I naturally looked now for a family likeness between the two faces.
There was no family likeness; on the contrary, they were as unlike each
other in form and expression as faces could be. _Was_ she his sister,
after all? I looked at her hands, as represented in the portrait. Her
right hand was clasped by Eustace; her left hand lay on her lap. On the
third finger, distinctly visible, there was a wedding-ring. Were any of
my husband's sisters married? I had myself asked him the question when
he mentioned them to me, and I perfectly remembered that he had replied
in the negative.

Was it possible that my first jealous instinct had led me to the right
conclusion after all? If it had, what did the association of the three
initial letters mean? What did the wedding-ring mean? Good Heavens! was
I looking at the portrait of a rival in my husband's affections--and was
that rival his Wife?

I threw the photograph from me with a cry of horror. For one terrible
moment I felt as if my reason was giving way. I don't know what would
have happened, or what I should have done next, if my love for Eustace
had not taken the uppermost place among the contending emotions that
tortured me. That faithful love steadied my brain. That faithful love
roused