There was forwarded to Audley, from Lansmere Park, Nora’s last letter. The postman had left it there an hour or two after he himself had gone. The wedding-ring fell on the ground, and rolled under his feet. And those burning passionate reproaches—all that anger of the wounded dove—they explained to him the mystery of her return—her unjust suspicions—the cause of her sudden death, which he still ascribed to brain fever, brought on by excitement and fatigue. For Nora did not speak of the child about to be born; she had not remembered it when she wrote, or she would not have written. On the receipt of this letter, Egerton could not remain in the dull village district—alone, too, with Harley. He said, abruptly, that he must go to London—prevailed on L’Estrange to accompany him; and there, when he heard from Lady Lansmere that the funeral was over, he broke to Harley, with lips as white as the dead, and his hand pressed to his heart, on which his hereditary disease was fastening quick and fierce, the dread truth that Nora was no more. The effect upon the boy’s health and spirits was even more crushing than Audley could anticipate. He only woke from grief to feel remorse. “For,” said the noble Harley, “had it not been for my mad passion—my rash pursuit—would she ever have left her safe asylum—ever even have left her native town? And then—and then—the struggle between her sense of duty and her love to me! I see it all—all! But for me, she were living still!” “Oh, no!” cried Egerton—his confession now rushing to his lips. “Believe me, she never loved you as you think. Nay—nay—hear me! Rather suppose that she loved another—fled with him—was perhaps married to him, and—” “Hold!” exclaimed Harley, with a terrible burst of passion—“you kill her twice to me, if you say that! I can still feel that she lives—lives here, in my heart—while I dream that she loved me—or, at least, that no other lip ever knew the kiss that was denied to mine! But if you tell me to doubt _that_;—you—you”——The boy’s anguish was too great for his frame; he fell suddenly back into Audley’s arms; he had broken a blood-vessel. For several days he was in great danger, but his eyes were constantly fixed on Audley’s, with wistful, intense gaze. “Tell me,” he muttered, at the risk of reopening the ruptured veins, and of the instant loss of life—“tell me—you did not mean _that_! Tell me you have no cause to think she loved another—_was_ another’s!” “Hush, hush—no cause—none—none. I meant but to comfort you, as I thought—fool that I was—that is all!” cried the miserable friend. And from that hour Audley gave up the idea of righting himself in his own eyes, and submitted still to be the living lie—he, the haughty gentleman!