“Stop, Fred Bingham, stop!” Kate cried impetuously; “do not dare to say a word to me. Not for fifty times Captain Bradshaw’s money would I hear a word against Frank. And more than that, do you think, after what I know of you, that I would believe you if you took an oath on the Bible? Don’t speak, sir,” she said, passionately. “I warn you, if you say a word, one single word, I will tell my husband; and if you know him as well as I do, you will know that if he thought you were trying to make mischief between us, he would beat you like a dog before all your men.” “I only wished to put matters straight,” Fred Bingham said, cowed by the might of Kate’s anger. “You did not, Fred Bingham; you never wished to do anything of the sort. I don’t believe you ever wanted to do a good action from the day you were born. You simply wanted to make mischief. You only wanted to tell me a lie under promise of secrecy.” “I swear to you,” Fred Bingham said, “that what I was going to tell you, Captain Bradshaw will corroborate if you write to him.” “Then, likely enough, Fred Bingham, you lied to him as well as to me; you are quite capable of it. And now go: you may rely that for Frank’s sake, though not for yours, I shall not mention that you have been here; but if you ever come again when I am alone, and try to make mischief between Frank and me, I will tell him, whatever the consequences may be.” Fred Bingham went away crestfallen, and never came up to the cottage again. Two more months passed. It is nearly a year since Frank began work at Landfarn. Things are unchanged. It is a Sunday afternoon, which Frank and Kate always look forward to during the whole week, as the one day when they are happy together. After church, if it is fine, Frank sits in front of the cottage, and plays with Charley, who is now two years old; Katie sits by his side and reads to him, or talks of old days. They are very happy there, and agree that on Sunday the works shall never be alluded to. Evan does a little in the garden, or helps Jane to carry the baby about. Evan has been on the works ever since they began. He is eighteen now, and his navvy work has widened him out into a broad young fellow. He does not live at the cottage; it is too far from his work; but he comes up on Saturday afternoon, when the pay is over, and stops until Monday morning, working in the garden, and making himself useful in many little ways. On the day in question the afternoon was wet, and Frank had, for want of anything else to do, been turning over his desk, and tearing up the accumulated letters of months. Among other letters which he had so treated was the one which he himself had written to Captain Bradshaw, and which had been returned unopened. “It’s no use keeping that any longer,” he had said to his wife; “it is not a pleasant thing to stare one in the face every time one opens one’s desk.” Kate nodded, and the letter was torn to pieces, and with its envelope thrown carelessly with the others.