"There is nothing to save me from!" I answered, touched with her kindness, and feeling ashamed of myself not to be more touched with it than I was. "I am not likely to marry Mr. Chandos, or to be asked to marry him!" "My dear, I don't think I can be deceived. There _is_ love between you!" "You did not finish about Lottie," I said, evading the question. "Why could he not marry her?" "Because he had a wife living, from whom he was separated." "At least, Mr. Chandos has not that." She remained silent, only looked at me. I am not sure but an idea struck me that the silence was strange. I could never tell afterwards whether or not it so struck me _then_. "I said the cases were somewhat parallel," she slowly observed. "Scarcely, Mrs. Penn. Mr. Chandos at least does not deceive me. He says he cannot marry. His life is given up to sorrow." "Given up to sorrow? He says that, does he? Anne, I have half a mind to tell you the truth. What is his sorrow, compared to that of poor Mrs. Chandos. I pity _her_." "Who is Mrs. Chandos?" I interrupted, seizing on the opportunity to inquire on the subject that remained a puzzle, and thinking this kind woman might satisfy me. "They call her Lady Chandos's daughter-in-law, but I cannot see how she can be so." "Mrs. Chandos was once Miss Ethel Wynne." "But who is her husband?" "Ah, _you_ may well ask. It is curious though that you should." Was it the stress on the word "you?"—was it that her face was so suggestive as it gazed into mine?—or was it that the previous vague idea was growing into life? I knew not; I never have known. I only felt that I turned sick with an undefined doubt and dread as I waited for Mrs. Penn's answer. She was a full minute, looking into my whitening face, before she gave it. "My poor stricken lamb! Has it never struck you who it might be? Speak." Speak! I put up my trembling hand as if to beat off her words. That unholy idea—yes, it did seem to me unholy in those first confused moments—was growing into a great monster of fear. Mrs. Penn looked as if she could not take in enough of the signs. "What if her husband were Harry Chandos?" With the strange noise surging in my ears—with my pulses standing cold and still, and then coursing on to fever heat,—with my temples beating to burning pain—no wonder I could not weigh my words. "Oh, Mrs. Penn! Do not tell it me!" "Think you that you need telling, Anne? I can add something more. Never will Harry Chandos love again in this world, you or any one else, as passionately as he once loved Ethel Wynne." My senses were getting confused; as if I no longer understood things. She went on.