intention of following him, but when I tried the door I found it had been locked on the outside. Powerless to do anything but wait, I sat, trembling, till daylight began to peep in at the windows. Then I heard my husband's footsteps in the passage, which would not have reached my ears had not my senses been preternaturally sharpened. He trod softly, and turned the key in the door very gently in order not to disturb me. He entered the room, and I almost fainted as I saw in his hand the bright blade of an ancient dagger which usually lay upon his study table. His face was turned towards me, his eyes were open, but he did not see me. He took from his pocket a sheath, in which he placed the dagger, and then he undressed. Before he lay down to that more healthful sleep in which his mind would be at rest, he listened two or three times at the locked door, and going to the window, drew the blind a little aside and looked from the window. Then he stretched himself in bed, and his eyes closed. Not by the least sign did he show any consciousness of the fact that I was standing, dressed, in the room, and that we were often face to face. I soon retired to bed, but I slept no more. I lay awake, listening to my husband's breathing, praying for the hour to arrive at which we generally rose for the day--praying for that, praying that the night would not come again, praying for a friend to counsel me. It were vain for me to disguise from you that I am in dread of what may happen should my husband and Emilius meet. And there is still something more----" I waited, but she left the sentence uncompleted. Startled as I was by what I had heard, I was even more startled to see this good and gentle woman suddenly cover her face with her hands, and burst into a passion of tears. I turned from her in commiseration, powerless to relieve or console her. Even had I words at command, it was better that her grief should be allowed to spend itself naturally. When she had recovered, I asked, "Has Mr. Carew made any reference to what passed in the night?" "Not any," she replied. "Did you?" "I simply asked him if he had slept well, and he answered 'Yes,' and that his sleep had been dreamless." "Will you pardon me for the question whether you believe that to be really so--whether his answer to your solicitous inquiry was not prompted by his desire not to trouble or distress you?" "I am certain," said Mrs. Carew, "that my husband said what he believes to be true. Dear friend, what am I to do?" She seized my hand, and clung to it as though to me, and to me alone, could she look for help in her sad position. "Does Mildred know anything, suspect anything?" I asked. What was the meaning of the timid, frightened, helpless look in her eyes at the mention of Mildred's name? No mental efforts of mine could fathom it.