ter John!" she stammered, with tears gathering in her eyes,
reverting again to that name of bygone times, "if you had loved me
then--if you had consoled my true affection with one word of hope, one
look of loving-kindness--if you had not spurned and crushed me, I should
not have been what I am now."

I was about to make some answer to this burst of unforgotten passion,
when the voice came again: "Speak of him!"

"You have loved others since," I remarked, with a coldness which seemed
cruel to myself. "You love _him_ now." And I nodded my head toward the
door by which the man had disappeared.

"Do I?" she said, with a bitter smile. "Perhaps; who knows?"

"And yet no good can come to you from a connection with that man," I
pursued.

"Why not? He adores me, and he is free," was her answer, given with a
little triumphant air.

"Yes," I said, "I know he is free: he has lately lost his wife. He has
made good his claim to the sum for which he insured her life."

Mary grew deadly pale. "How did you learn this? what do you know of
him?" she stammered.

I had no reply to give. She scanned my face anxiously for some time;
then in a low voice she added, "What do you suspect?"

I was still silent, and only looked at her fixedly.

"You do not speak," she pursued nervously. "Why do you not speak? Ah,
you know more than you would say! Master John, Master John, you might
set my tortured mind at rest, and clear or confirm those doubts which
_will_ come into my poor head, spite of myself. Speak out--O, do speak
out!"

"Not here; it is impossible," I replied, looking around. The room as the
hour advanced, was becoming more thronged with guests, and the full
tables gave a pretext for my reticence, when in truth I had nothing to
say.

"Will you come and see me--will you?" she asked with earnest entreaty.

I nodded my head.

"Have you a pocketbook? I will write you my address; and you will
come--yes, I am sure you will come!" she said in an agitated way.

I handed her my pocketbook and pencil; she wrote rapidly.

"Between the hours of three and five," she whispered, looking uneasily
at the door; "_he_ is sure not to be at home."

I rose; Mary held out her hand to me, then withdrew it hastily with an
air of shame, and the tears sprang into her eyes again. I left the room
hurriedly, and met her companion on the stairs.

That same evening, in the solitude of my own room, I pondered over the
little event of the day. I had ca