Year: 1874

lll1.s.nEInuun1an9
looked for It on her nephew as he sat on
my lap.


II studied every sentence of that letter,
as one studies the face Of sick child,
looking for hope in II. My love for Mr..
Deane had never gone out Of my heart
| (6rst love never does, l think, and in all
these years had kept account more or
less closely of his habits and welfare. /
knew that he was often driven from home
by his business, and that he was obliged
to be away many days at time. / sent
the letter in fear and trembling and bided
my time In few days had notice
from banking house in New York that
certain sum would be paid me every year
by order of Mrs. Isabel Deane. 1t was
precisely the amount Of the allowance
| had mentioned in my letter-not an ex-
travagant sum, but Just enough TO support
my boy and me decently.


"She could spare 1t well enough, and,
after all, don't know why should be
sorry for doing IT, She had had more
than her share of happiness, but / have
| often wondered how she took my little
| thunderbolt. / heard she went to Europe
with her children"


Madeleine Dejoux had said all this in
a high, constrained voice, as il she had
been wound up to run just so many min.
utes. She now shrank down among her
| pillows, and seemed to be bracing herself
to receive my wrath in whatever form IL
might break upon her.


For one black instant | had savage
longing to clutch her throat, and shake
out of her what little life she had left;
but the great joyfulness of the tidings that
| could send to Isabel swept it away. !
should have been pagan indeed to give
another turn to the rack on which remorse
and disease had long bound her. l felt
only contempt for the workings of such
mind when she looked into my eyes
again.


81 see you have been furious" she said,
reading me as If had been printed in
the largest type; "but now you have
turned scornful. You used to be q devout
admirer of Mrs. Deane, who, with all her
tameness, could fascinate men and women
both. / know all the wires that men are
pulled by: but l never had a woman
friend, unless yOu will be that one."


al, your friendl" / said, with a
shudder that did not try to hide.


Never mind" she said, wearily; "I
can do without it as have always. I see
your interest in me ends with this inter-
view You would trample me under your
feet if you could help Mrs. Deane by it,"


That is of course. | may think of you
in connection with Mrs. Deane's sorrow
as one thinks of the serpent in the ruin
of Eve: we follow her fortune ever after,
but l don't know that anybody cared what
became of that particular serpent"


81 was sore tempted" she pleaded,
"and could not see my boy starve."


"Where is your boy now?"


''Oh, he is dead. never repented till
then"


"And if he had lived you would never
have undeceived your victim; you would
have let her drag cut her life in torturing
doubt of her husbands faith?"


eyes, think So"


"And think so too" said, drawing
my cape, which she had never let go,
out of her hand. "You are mistaking
remorse for repentance; but at least, to
give you your due, you have done one
good thing before it is too late"


She turned her face away from me with
a movement of impatience, as if she half
grudged even that one white thread in a
whole life woven out of evil, and went
quietly out of the infrmary and ran all
the way to my own house.


While Madeleine. Dejoux's words were
fresh in my memory, wrote every one
as she had spoken them; but they could
not reach Isabel in less than fortnight,
and | would not prolong her pain even
that length of time.


l wrote half dozen kilograms before l
could hit on a form of words that salts
fed me.


One was: Madeleine Dejoux has con
fessed her deception" And another:
THE woman who wrote lying letter to
you is dying" but I feared the telegram
would be opened by a stranger, or by one
Of the children, before it should reach
Isabel and the questions and surmises as
to its meaning would be endless. At last
I settled on this: "Glad tidings of great
joy. Look for letter."


Then l made three copies of Made
leine's confession, and sent them ON sue
cessive days to Heidelberg, that Isabel
might be nearly sure of getting one of
them, if the others failed.


Then | sat down and folded my hands,
so to speak, feeling myself the center of
great stretch of peace ana calmness, as
people do after troublesome piece of
work is fairly finished, and folded up and
laid away for future use.


| never saw again the wild, self-tortur-
ing woman who had first stolen and then
restored Isabel's comfort, but the matron
sent me a notice of her death two or
three days after my visit to her


In less than two months Isabel came
home, bringing her children. She looked
worn and altered; but the sweet, soft dew
of happiness again frightened her eyes
and flushed her cheek. Her talk, as of
old, was full of simple, innocent, womanly
matters, untouched by the sarcasms which
had come over the sea in all these years,
and had pricked me like arrows. We
spoke no word of all that had come and
gone between us. We just buried the ugly
skeleton, and put no stone to mark the
place. But when she was again settled in
her old home, with her workable in front
of Mr.. Deane's portrait (which she had
begged from his sister,, l sometimes
caught her returning glance as she gazed
long upon it; and l constantly read in
her face, Forgive me, forgive me, o my
husbandw


To hear with eyes is part Of Loves fine wit,
and ours was but woman's friendship;
but loved Isabel Deane we'll enough for