her. Not a day passes but I mourn the loss of her. Oh, if she had only
been contented to let matters rest as they were! Oh, if she had never
discovered the miserable truth!

"She spoke of reading the Trial when I saw her last. Has she persisted
in doing so? I believe--I say this seriously, mother--I believe the
shame and the horror of it would have been the death of me if I had
met her face to face when she first knew of the ignominy that I have
suffered, of the infamous suspicion of which I have been publicly made
the subject. Think of those pure eyes looking at a man who has been
accused (and never wholly absolved) of the foulest and the vilest of
all murders, and then think of what that man must feel if he have any
heart and any sense of shame left in him. I sicken as I write of it.

"Does she still meditate that hopeless project--the offspring, poor
angel, of her artless, unthinking generosity? Does she still fancy that
it is in _her_ power to assert my innocence before the world? Oh, mother
(if she do), use your utmost influence to make her give up the idea!
Spare her the humiliation, the disappointment, the insult, perhaps,
to which she may innocently expose herself. For her sake, for my sake,
leave no means untried to attain this righteous, this merciful end.

"I send her no message--I dare not do it. Say nothing, when you see her,
which can recall me to her memory. On the contrary, help her to forget
me as soon as possible. The kindest thing I can do--the one atonement I
can make to her--is to drop out of her life."

With those wretched words it ended. I handed his letter back to his
mother in silence. She said but little on her side.

"If _this_ doesn't discourage you," she remarked, slowly folding up the
letter, "nothing will. Let us leave it there, and say no more."

I made no answer--I was crying behind my veil. My domestic prospect
looked so dreary! my unfortunate husband was so hopelessly misguided, so
pitiably wrong! The one chance for both of us, and the one consolation
for poor Me, was to hold to my desperate resolution more firmly than
ever. If I had wanted anything to confirm me in this view, and to arm me
against the remonstrances of every one of my friends, Eustace's letter
would have proved more than sufficient to answer the purpose. At least
he had not forgotten me; he thought of me, and he mourned the loss of me
every day of his life. That was encouragement enough--for the present.
"If Ariel