She rose up, groped her way across the dark room, and drew back the window-curtain. The first streaks of day were showing in the sky, the peaceful wooded land was half shrouded still in the mists of morning. With long whistling notes the birds gave welcome to the coming day; they called to each other, near at hand, and far off among the blossoming thickets, like happy spirits that sing together in the fields of joy. Anne leaned from the window and listened to these songs that went up so straight into the dim blue morning skies. A great fear held her fast,—the fear that Dick, her husband, her helper, had deceived her. In her dismay and bewilderment she could only repeat again and again, ‘Lord help me, Lord help me,’ scarcely knowing what she said. Then, afraid to lie down again, she dressed and went down-stairs and into the garden. Far off on the London road she heard the distant trotting of a horse and the roll of wheels; some one must be driving along in the quiet morning dimness. Anne stepped down the little walk and stood leaning against the gate. The wheels came nearer, and then came down the lane. Anne turned away, for even in that dim light the passers-by must see her tears. Then she heard the chaise stop at the gate; Dick’s voice—how clear it sounded in the early stillness!—was speaking to the post-boy. ‘There, my man; that’s for your trouble all a dark night.’ ‘Thank you, sir—thanks to you,’ said the boy as the chaise rattled off. Anne turned and came down the little walk to meet Dick; her gown brushed the dew from the overgrown rose-bushes in showers as she passed. She came towards him silently, her face tear-stained, tragic. Dick held out both hands to her, but before he could speak Anne checked him with an upraised hand. ‘God’s spoke to me, Dick,’ she said, stopping before him like an avenging angel. ‘I have come to tell you everything,’ said poor Dick; and at that moment he drank the dregs of a bitter cup, ‘for I knew you guessed something when I left you.’ ‘God spoke to me in a dream,’ repeated Anne. ‘When I waked up I knew for sure you had lied to me.’ ‘Yes, Anne, I lied,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘About Sebastian?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘An’ he never played me false, nor married a Dutch wife?’ ‘Never.’ ‘Come,’ said Anne. ‘Come then an’ try if you can speak truth this once.’ She pointed to the seat by the bee-hives, and in silence they crossed over to it and sat down. ‘Tell me now,’ said Anne. Dick leant forward and began his story, and a pitiful story it was. Now that he was face to face with the worst he made no attempt at extenuation of his falsity; he might have been reading off the words from a printed page, they came so straight from his lips, his flute-clear voice never hesitated once till the whole was told. Anne on her part listened quietly enough; without the usual exclamatory interruptions which her sex commonly indulge in. When the story was done there was a moment’s silence, before she said, speaking very low—