And she only waited until she heard her husband go, as he was accustomed to do, into the library after breakfast before she descended the staircase with Henderson's letter in her hand. She went direct to the library and entered it, without knocking at the door, and the squire who was sitting before his writing table looked up as she did so. "Were you not well at breakfast, Rachel?" he said, kindly. "Or," he added, noticing the expression of her face, "did anything in that letter that you got vex you?" "I was not ill," she answered, "but this letter confirmed some shameful news that I have come to tell you about John Temple." "Shameful news about John Temple!" repeated the squire, pushing back his chair and looking straight at his wife's pale, determined face. "At least I call it shameful," she went on, "to induce a country girl to leave her home--a daughter of one of your own tenants--to deceive you, his best friend. Philip, you remember the girl, May Churchill, who ran away? I suspected at the time that John Temple had something to do with it, and now I know. This girl is living at an address in London, and is called there Mrs. John, and she writes to him here, and if she is not married to him she ought to be--and I do not believe she is." "I will never believe this!" said the squire, rising in great emotion, his aged face growing pale. "What! John Temple wrong May Churchill; the little girl I have known since she was a child; the daughter of a man like Churchill, whom I respect, and who has lived on my land since he was a lad, and his father before him! Rachel, what folly is this? Who has been telling you this wicked, this insane story?" "My own eyes told me first," answered Mrs. Temple, in a hard, concentrated voice, "and every word that I have told you is true. Do you remember when he used to get large letters which he said were from some late landlady of his, and contained his unpaid bills? I suspected at that time he was not speaking the truth, and a day or two after I learned this was so. He got one of these large letters at breakfast, and he put it in his pocket unread. I said at the time, 'more bills?' and he answered, 'I am afraid so.' Well, after the breakfast was over, I went upstairs, and passed his sitting-room door, and it was standing ajar. I wanted to speak to him about going to call at Homelands, and I went into the room. He was not there, but an open letter was lying on the table. I went up to the table and read the first lines. It began: 'My dearest, dearest John.'" "But what of that?" said Mr. Temple, angrily. "You had no right to read or look at his letters for one thing, and for another, how could you tell by whom this letter was written?"