e had kept it in the close
custody of his breast-pocket; and when, as he left the house, he sent
his wife to find that which had come from her father, he certainly
thought that this prior letter was at the moment secure from all eyes
within the sanctuary of his coat. But it was otherwise. With that
negligence to which husbands are so specially subject, he had made the
Dean's letter safe next to his bosom, but had left the other epistle
unguarded. He had not only left it unguarded, but had absolutely so
put his wife on the track of it that it was impossible that she should
not read it.

Mary found the letter and did read it before she left her husband's
dressing room,--and the letter was as follows:--

"Dearest George;--" When she read the epithet, which she and she only
was entitled to use, she paused for a moment and all the blood rushed
up into her face. She had known the handwriting instantly, and at the
first shock she put the paper down upon the table. For a second there
was a feeling prompting her to read no further. But it was only for a
second. Of course she would read it. It certainly never would have
occurred to her to search her husband's clothes for letters. Up to this
moment she had never examined a document of his except at his bidding
or in compliance with his wish. She had suspected nothing, found
nothing, had entertained not even any curiosity about her husband's
affairs. But now must she not read this letter to which he himself had
directed her? Dearest George! And that in the handwriting of her
friend,--her friend!--Adelaide Houghton;--in the handwriting of the
woman to whom her husband had been attached before he had known
herself! Of course she read the letter.

"DEAREST GEORGE,--

"I break my heart when you don't come to me; for heaven's sake be
here to-morrow. Two, three, four, five, six, seven--I shall be
here any hour till you come. I don't dare to tell the man that I
am not at home to anybody else, but you must take your chance.
Nobody ever does come till after three or after six. He never
comes home till half-past seven. Oh me! what is to become of me
when you go out of town? There is nothing to live for,
nothing;--only you. Anything that you write is quite safe. Say
that you love me. A."

The letter had grieved him when he got it,--as had other letters before
that. And yet it flattered him, and the assurance of the woman's love
had in i