“MY LADI,—My consence druvs me to it, much again my will. I’ve tried hard, my ladi, not to speek, first acorse of miss B. as i heve knowed good and peur and also for the sakes of your evil usband that wulf in scheeps cloathin. But when i think on you my ladi a lorful legel wife gud and virtus and peur and of the things as i hev seen which is enuf to bring a blush to the face of a stater, I knows it is my holy dooty to rite your ladishipp as follers. Your ladishipp forgif me but on the nite of whittsundey last Miss B. Grainger wint after midnite inter the room of your bad usband—as I was to mi sham ther to se. Afterward more nor an hour, she cum out ain being carred _in his harmes_. And if your ladishipp dont believ me, let your ladishipp rite to miss elizbeth, as had this same misfortune to see as your tru frend, “THE RITER.” In due course this charming communication reached Lady Honoria, bearing a London post-mark. She read and re-read it, and soon mastered its meaning. Then, after a night’s thought, she took the “Riter’s” advice and wrote to Elizabeth, sending her a copy of the letter (her own), vehemently repudiating all belief in it, and asking for a reply that should dissipate this foul slander from her mind for ever. The answer came by return. It was short and artful. “DEAR LADY HONORIA BINGHAM,” it ran, “you must forgive me if I decline to answer the questions in your letter. You will easily understand that between a desire to preserve a sister’s reputation and an incapacity (to be appreciated by every Christian) to speak other than the truth—it is possible for a person to be placed in the most cruel of positions—a position which I am sure will command even your sympathy, though under such circumstances I have little right to expect any from a wife believing herself to have been cruelly wronged. Let me add that nothing short of the compulsion of a court of law will suffice to unseal my lips as to the details of the circumstances (which are, I trust, misunderstood) alluded to in the malicious anonymous letter of which you inclose a copy.” That very evening, as the Fates would have it, Lady Honoria and her husband had a quarrel. As usual, it was about Effie, for on most other subjects they preserved an armed neutrality. Its details need not be entered into, but at last Geoffrey, who was in a sadly irritable condition of mind, fairly lost his temper. “The fact is,” he said, “that you are not fit to look after the child. You only think of yourself, Honoria.” She turned on him with a dangerous look upon her cold and handsome face. “Be careful what you say, Geoffrey. It is you who are not fit to have charge of Effie. Be careful lest I take her away from you altogether, as I can if I like.” “What do you mean by that threat?” he asked. “Do you want to know? Then I will tell you. I understand enough law to be aware that a wife can get a separation from an unfaithful husband, and what is more, can take away his children.”