“He kept me when he had money; he gave me himself, and all he possessed in the world.” “What did he marry you for?” Sir William asked, gazing at her in wonder, and almost clutching the arms of his chair. “He married me”—her voice trembled and she drooped her head again—“he married me because—because he loved me.” “Loved you! What should he love you for?” “William, do you wish to insult me? I do not see why he should not love me, or why he should pretend to do so if he did not.” “And I suppose you love him?” he said, pulling the blanket farther up over his knees and speaking in a scornful, incredulous voice. “Yes, William, I do—I love him more than all the world; and unless you will help me so that I may give him those things that he requires and make our little home worthy of his residence in it, you will break my heart—you will kill him, and you will break my heart,” she repeated passionately. “I will conceal nothing from you—we are starving. We have not got a pound in the world—we have not even food to eat. He is young, and requires plenty of nourishment; he is not strong, and wants luxuries.” “And you want me to pay for them?” But she did not seem to hear him, and swept on— “He must have them or he will die. We have spent every penny we had—I have even borrowed money on my possessions. I can conceal things from strangers, but you and I belong to the same family, and what I say to you I know is sacred—we are starving, William, we are starving, and I implore you to help me. He says he cannot stay unless I take back money—that he will go and leave me.” Something seemed to gather in her throat—there was a ring of fright and despair in her voice as she said the last words. “He will leave me, and it will break my heart, for he is all the world to me. It will break my heart if he goes, and unless I take back money he will leave me!” “And let you starve by yourself?—a nice man to marry.” “William,” she said, “he must remember what is due to himself. He cannot stay if he has not even food to eat.” “And, pray, who is this gentleman?” “I have told you that he is a brilliant writer.” “What is his name?” “I don’t think I am justified in telling you—he does not wish our marriage to be known.” “I can quite understand that,” Sir William answered ironically. “Did he tell you to come to me for money?” “Yes, he told me to do so,” she said, tragically; “he knew your good heart.” “Knew my good heart, did he?” There was a deadly pallor spreading over Sir William’s face that frightened her. For a moment his lips moved without making a sound, then he recovered his voice, “Tell me his name—what is it?” “William——” she began. “What is it?” he cried, and his breath came short and quick. She was too scared to demur any longer. “It is Alfred Wimple”—and her heart stood still. He gazed at her for a moment in silence. “Wimple,” he said—“what, Boughton’s nephew? That skunk he had to turn out of his office?”