“Oh,” said Mrs. Horton, “Doctor Redfield is a Chicagoan. He was my physician at Lake Geneva, and for awhile I feared that Ethel really cared for him.” “And if she had?” observed Mr. Horton, interrogatively. “Oh, Doctor Redfield was recommended very highly, professionally and otherwise,” replied his wife, “but you know,—well, Lucy and I had planned it differently.” She spoke in a slow and hesitating manner. Mr. Horton made no reply. Presently she said, “The death of Mrs. Osborn has been a great shock to me. I cannot bring myself to believe those shameful rumors about her and Lord Avondale; I really can’t.” “My dear wife,” replied Mr. Horton, with more firmness than was usual with him, “it is proper to let the dead rest in peace. The atmosphere of strict propriety, as a matter of fact, bristled with interrogation points, though unknown to you. Mrs. Osborn’s death, however, calmed all into silent and mute forgiveness. It is best that it should be so. I do not regard it as strange that you should have been deceived by the machinations of a clever woman and of a consummate scoundrel. Avondale was a mercenary adventurer, and used his newly acquired title as a social ‘jimmy’ to break into the sanctity of our home. Let us be truly grateful for Ethel’s escape. That is one reason, I imagine, why she is so happy to-night.” “And pray, do you think there are other reasons?” asked Mrs. Horton, apprehensively. “There is one other reason,” replied her husband, “that I know of. Ethel is in love with Doctor Redfield. I have so much confidence in her judgment that I cannot question the wisdom of her choice. Her wishes and happiness, my dear, must be paramount to all else.” Mrs. Horton had never before heard her husband speak so decisively about Ethel, and it began to dawn upon her that she had been cruelly deceived by Mrs. Osborn and Lenox Avondale. Even Ethel had not confided in her as a daughter should. It was too much for Mrs. Horton, and genuine tears filled her eyes. In her ambition for her daughter’s place in society, she felt she had been imposed upon, and it cut her deeply. “Come, come, my dear,” said her husband, observing her tears, “I am sure Ethel does not blame you. She thinks, and, I believe, rightly, that you have been imposed upon by those far more designing than it was possible for you to imagine.” A little later Mrs. Horton rapped at the door of her daughter’s room. Ethel’s face was flushed with the joy of her great love for Jack. He had given her the letters that had been intercepted by Mrs. Osborn, and also the letter purporting to have been written by her mother. She knew the handwriting, and imagined that her mother was ignorant of the intrigue that had kept Jack from her so long. As Mrs. Horton entered the room, Ethel saw traces of tears on her cheeks. The stately woman came close to her daughter and caressed and kissed her affectionately.