“Of course I would,” said Reginald. “Just you tell me how.” Excellent words. But the lady's calm infallible eye saw a cunning twinkle in those black twinkling orbs. Young as he was, he was on his guard, and waiting for her. Nor was this surprising: Reginald, naturally intelligent, had accumulated a large stock of low cunning in his travels and adventures with the gypsies, a smooth and cunning people. Lady Bassett's fainting upon his return, his exclusion from her room, and one or two minor circumstances, had set him thinking. The moment she saw that look, Lady Bassett, with swift tact, glided away from the line she had intended to open, and, after merely thanking him, and saying, “I believe you, dear,” though she did not believe him, she resumed, in a very impressive tone, “You see me worse than ever to-day, because my mind is in great trouble. The time is come when I must tell you a secret, which will cause you a bitter disappointment. Why I send for you is, to see whether I cannot do something for you to make you happy, in spite of that cruel disappointment.” Not a word from Reginald. “Mr. Bassett--forgive me, if you can--for I am the most miserable woman in England--you are not the heir to this place; you are not Sir Charles Bassett's son.” “What!” shouted the young man. Her fortitude gave way for a moment. She shook her head, in confirmation of what she had said, and hid her burning face and scalding tears in her white and wasted hands. There was a long silence. Reginald was asking himself if this could be true, or was it a maneuver to put her favorite Compton over his head. Lady Bassett looked up, and saw this paltry suspicion in his face. She dried her tears directly, and went to a bureau, unlocked it, and produced the manuscript confession she had prepared for her husband. She bade Reginald observe the superscription and the date. When he had done so, she took her scissors and opened it for him. “Read what I wrote to my beloved husband at a time when I expected soon to appear before my Judge.” She then sank upon the sofa, and lay there like a log; only, from time to time, during the long reading, tears trickled from her eyes. Reginald read the whole story, and saw the facts must be true: more than that, being young, and a man, he could not entirely resist the charm of a narrative in which a lady told at full the love, the grief, the terror, the sufferings, of her heart, and the terrible temptation under which she had gone astray. He laid it down at last, and drew a long breath. “It's a devil of a job for _me,”_ said he; “but I can't blame you. You sold that Dick Bassett, and I hate him. But what is to become of _me?”_