Her lips trembled with the pathos of her reply: "Did I know of the fate of my child, heaven could not bless me with a more joyful desire--to let you know, to let your aunt know, that Dorothy is--is safe. As it is, I would to heaven that I were dead and with my darling." And her head fell forward on the table as a burst of heart-rending agony shook her frame. It was evident Sam was uneasy and much affected by her distress. He coughed and tried to clear his throat again and again. "Ahem!--you must excuse me, Mrs. Thorpe--ahem! But--but, Lord--Lord! I can't bear to hear you take on that way. Ahem! Ahem! I'm rough and thoughtless in my way, and it seems harsh and brutal to speak to you as I have done--I guess so!--and if any man in my hearing says you have hidden your child--why, by Heavens, I'll knock the lie back through his teeth." Sam had forgotten his resolution to resist the influence of a woman's tears; moreover, he felt convinced he was standing in the presence of a true, atrociously wronged and much slandered woman, and in his eagerness to undo the wrong he had done her by practically charging her with the wrecking of her husband's happiness and connivance at the child's disappearance, had lost control of that gentleness he felt due to the weaker sex, especially this bereaved woman. He stammered an apology in a soft regretful tone of voice. "I--I--beg your pardon. I--I could not help it. These expressions will slip out now and again, won't they? I guess so. I am satisfied you are deeply grieved about Dorothy, and I'm interested in her, too. The fact is, I was so anxious on my aunt's account that I have behaved like a brute. Now please understand me, you are not friendless, for I shall do my best for you, and if Dorothy is out of water I'm going to find her. I'm off now, so good-bye!" And he was gone--glad to get away from the distress that raised a lump in his throat which all his labored coughing could not dislodge. Sam had entered her presence a scoffer. He had made up his mind that her grief was as deceitful as her reputed double life. He departed, her firm friend and almost choked with disgust at his own readiness to believe the foul reports, magnified by gossiping busybodies. Gradually Constances' emotion subsided. She sat upright in the chair. A significant dryness had come into her eyes as she stared at the wall with profound abstraction. Out of the haze John Thorpe's picture gradually emerged. Suddenly she exclaimed in strangely low tones, almost a whisper--tones in which a woman's life was projected on the horoscope of faithfulness, immutable as the "Rock of Ages": "John! John! You are breaking my heart!" Then her mind began to settle upon one object--to see her husband, John Thorpe. "It must be some mistake!" she muttered. "It cannot be so. John would never treat me thus. I will have Smith seek him and deliver a message at once."