“Frank Maynard, I have loved you from a boy, and would have wagered my life upon your honour. I find that you are a dishonourable scoundrel. You see I don't mince matters with you, I don't give it mild names, I leave the matter to your own conscience. When you learn what has happened, you will, unless you are even more heartless than I even now take you to be, bitterly regret your conduct. Palliation or excuse for you there is none. You were warned, but you shut your ears to the warning. As for me I have done with you. I never will see you again; you have disappointed all my hopes; you have turned out a heartless reprobate; and I have done with you for ever. “Your indignant uncle, “RICHARD BRADSHAW.” Frank spoke first. “It seems to me, Katie, that the old gentleman has gone out of his mind. What he means I have not the remotest idea. I am awfully sorry, Katie, for I like my uncle very much, he has been the kindest friend to me. As for his money, I have enough for us, dear, and he may do what he likes with it; but I am awfully sorry that he has gone out of his mind. I can only suppose he has been thinking over that Alice Heathcote affair, which I told you about, Katie, till he has fairly gone cranky.” Katie was silent still, then she rose quietly from her husband's knee, and looked him fully in the face with those clear honest eyes of hers. “Frank, dear, you are my husband now, and I know you love me very truly, whatever you may once have done any other. Frank, dear, I am not a child, I know men—do things—before they are married—you know what I mean, Frank? Don't speak, please, or I can't go on. Now, Frank, if you have done any wrong thing—there can be no mistake what your uncle means—if you have deceived, it is no use mincing words, Frank, some one who had loved and trusted you, please tell me. I shall be sorry, Frank, very, very sorry. You will not be quite the same to me; I cannot think of you as I have thought of you before, but I can quite forgive you, because I know you love me now. But, Frank, I must have it from your own lips. I am your wife now, Frank, and nothing you did before you married me can make me cease to love you, if you only trust in me and tell me. But if I have it from other lips, Frank, if I find you deceive me, I must go away, Frank, even if it break my heart.” Katie's voice trembled now, and her eyes filled with tears. Frank had once or twice tried to interrupt her, had tried to draw her towards him, but there was a sad dignity about the little figure which checked him until she finished. “Now, Frank, tell me the truth, you may trust me, dear, to hear it, I am your wife.” “My own darling Katie,” Frank said, rising and standing before her, “my own loving little wife, how dare you doubt your husband?”