“But, Uncle, we have proofs that this woman is not what she seems. Her own letters convict her. Read them, and do not blindly deceive yourself,” cried Edward, indignant at his uncle’s words. A low laugh startled them all, and in an instant they saw the cause of it. While Sir John spoke, Jean had taken the letters from the hand which he had put behind him, a favorite gesture of his, and, unobserved, had dropped them on the fire. The mocking laugh, the sudden blaze, showed what had been done. Both young men sprang forward, but it was too late; the proofs were ashes, and Jean Muir’s bold, bright eyes defied them, as she said, with a disdainful little gesture. “Hands off, gentlemen! You may degrade yourselves to the work of detectives, but I am not a prisoner yet. Poor Jean Muir you might harm, but Lady Coventry is beyond your reach.” “Lady Coventry!” echoed the dismayed family, in varying tones of incredulity, indignation, and amazement. “Aye, my dear and honored wife,” said Sir John, with a protecting arm about the slender figure at his side; and in the act, the words, there was a tender dignity that touched the listeners with pity and respect for the deceived man. “Receive her as such, and for my sake, forbear all further accusation,” he continued steadily. “I know what I have done. I have no fear that I shall repent it. If I am blind, let me remain so till time opens my eyes. We are going away for a little while, and when we return, let the old life return again, unchanged, except that Jean makes sunshine for me as well as for you.” No one spoke, for no one knew what to say. Jean broke the silence, saying coolly, “May I ask how those letters came into your possession?” “In tracing out your past life, Sydney found your friend Hortense. She was poor, money bribed her, and your letters were given up to him as soon as received. Traitors are always betrayed in the end,” replied Edward sternly. Jean shrugged her shoulders, and shot a glance at Gerald, saying with her significant smile, “Remember that, monsieur, and allow me to hope that in wedding you will be happier than in wooing. Receive my congratulations, Miss Beaufort, and let me beg of you to follow my example, if you would keep your lovers.” Here all the sarcasm passed from her voice, the defiance from her eye, and the one unspoiled attribute which still lingered in this woman’s artful nature shone in her face, as she turned toward Edward and Bella at their mother’s side. “You have been kind to me,” she said, with grateful warmth. “I thank you for it, and will repay it if I can. To you I will acknowledge that I am not worthy to be this good man’s wife, and to you I will solemnly promise to devote my life to his happiness. For his sake forgive me, and let there be peace between us.”