wished that his visits might be less frequent and shorter. But such
feelings were of rare occurrence. One day, about three years after
his marriage, a friend said to him, half in jest, and half in
earnest--

"Miller, a'n't you jealous of Westfield?"

"Oh yes--very jealous," he returned, in mock seriousness.

"I don't think I would like my wife's old flame to be quite as
intimate with her as Westfield is with your wife."

"Perhaps I would be a little jealous if I believed him to be an old
flame."

"Don't you know it?"

The tone and look that accompanied this question, more than the
question itself, produced an instant revulsion in Miller's feelings.

"No, I do not know it!" he replied, emphatically--"Do _you_ know
it?"

Conscious that he had gone too far, the friend hesitated, and
appeared confused.

"Why have you spoken to me in the way that you have done? Are you
jesting or in earnest?"

Miller's face was pale, and his lip quivered as he said this.

"Seriously, my friend," replied the other, "if you do not know that
Westfield was a suitor to your wife, and only made known his love to
her after you had offered her your hand, it is time that you did
know it. I thought you were aware of this."

"No, I never dreamed of such a thing. Surely it cannot be true."

"I know it to be true, for I was in correspondence with Westfield,
and was fully aware of his sentiments. Your marriage almost set him
beside himself."

As soon as Miller could get away from the individual who gave him
this startling information, he turned his steps homeward. He did not
ask himself why he did so. In fact, there was no purpose in his
mind. He felt wretched beyond description. The information just
conveyed, awakened the most dreadful suspicions, that would not
yield to any effort his generous feelings made to banish them.

On arriving at home, (it was five o'clock in the afternoon,) he
found that his wife had gone out; and further learned that Westfield
had called for her in a carriage, and that they had ridden out
together. This information did not, in the least, tend to quiet the
uneasiness he felt.

Going up into the chambers, he noticed many evidences of Anna's
having dressed, herself to go out, in haste. The door of the
wardrobe stood open, and also one of her drawers, with her bunch of
keys lying upon the bureau. The dress she had on when he left her at
dinner-time, had been changed for another, and, instead of being
hung u