She was startled when he raised his face to her, and clutched her hand in his strong grasp. “Oh, my lost love, my lost, dearest, only love! what has parted us? Tell me! I must know--I will know!” “I cannot tell,” she replied, gently laying her white, cool, soft hand on his hot brow. “I cannot even imagine. All I am certain of is that I never until this morning even heard of such a letter.” “Who has done it?” he cried, wildly. “Oh, Hermione, do you know I have been mad for love of you, and for the loss of you? Do you know that, after I believed you rejected me, I have lived like a man without reason, without soul? My days and nights have been one long dream of anguish, one long madness. I hate the sun that shines, the night that succeeds day, for no time will ever bring you back to me, and without you life is death.” “You forget,” she interrupted, gently. “You have your wife, Clarice, who loves you.” “I do not forget. Poor Clarice!--God pity her and pity me! I do not love her, Hermione. I have tried as hard to love her as I have to forget you, but cannot. I pray Heaven to pardon me the wrong I did in marrying her; I was blind enough to think it for the best. Oh, my lost love, I am going mad! Lay your cool hands on my brow again; fight down the demons who master me, my angel, my loadstar, my treasure! And you would have married me, Hermione? You would have made my life heaven instead of what it is. I might have been the happiest, even as I am the most wretched, of men.” “It might have been so; but, Ronald, you must not talk so to me. I am so glad I have seen you--glad to know you were not fickle in love and fancy, as I thought; but now we must part, and we must not meet again.” “I know; but before you leave me, Hermione, tell me how it happened?” “I cannot; how did you send that letter to me, Ronald?” “By my groom. He had orders to deliver it into your own hands, but you were away. He waited some hours, and, as you did not return, he gave it to your maid. I asked him every particular.” “To my maid! She never gave me any letter from you, Ronald. When did you send it?” “It was exactly one week after the ball,” he replied. “I remember,” said Lady Hermione. “We had all been over to Thringston, and it was late when we returned. My maid told me there was an envelope on the toilet-table that Sir Ronald’s groom had brought.” “That was it,” he said, eagerly. “No,” she said; “there is some mistake. I opened it, and there was nothing inside but a white rose, carefully folded. I laughed at what seemed to me a romantic idea.” “Was the envelope addressed to you?” he asked, quickly. “Yes, and in your handwriting. I knew it at once.” “There must have been foul play,” he said. “But how, Ronald? You spoke of a letter from me; tell me of that.” “It was an answer to mine; it came by post a day afterward. It was in your handwriting, I swear, and it--rejected me.” “I cannot understand it,” she cried.