“I dare say you are right, Emily,” Mr. Jerningham answered, with a little, languid sigh. His wife’s earnestness had taken him by surprise, and a new light had broken in upon his mind as she spoke. It was possible that there was some truth in these earnest, passionate words. He admitted as much to himself. Something more might have been required of him than a gentlemanly toleration of the woman he had chosen to share his home, to bear his name. The higher, Christian idea of man’s accountableness for the soul of his weaker partner was quite out of the region of Mr. Jerningham’s ethics; but, on purely social grounds, he felt that he had done his cousin and his wife some wrong. “I had exhausted my capacity for loving before I married,” he thought; “and I gave this poor creature a handful of ashes instead of a human heart.” After a few minutes’ silence he addressed his wife with an unaccustomed tenderness of tone. “Yes, my dear Emily, you have just ground for complaint against me. My error was greater than yours; and now we meet after a lapse of years--both of us older, possibly wiser--I can only say, forgive me.” He held out the hand of friendship, which his wife accepted in all humility of spirit. “No, no,” she exclaimed, “there can be no question of forgiveness on my part. You have been only too good to me, and my complaints are groundless and peevish. I suppose it is natural to a woman to try to excuse herself by accusing some one else. But, believe me, I have been no stranger to remorse. I could not die until I had thanked you for your indulgent kindness during the years of our separation, and asked you to forgive me. But before I ask for pardon, I beg you to read those letters.” She took a little packet from her work-basket and handed it to her husband. “I will do anything to oblige you,” said Mr. Jerningham, kindly; “but I assure you it is very unpleasant to me to read another man’s letters.”