Miss Rossiter was sure of it. That woman, whom she never liked, had shown her colors at last, and here was the result in the colonel’s bowed form and fast-turning hair. He _had_ grown old and his hair _was_ gray, and she told him so, and added: “Poor Howard, tell me about it. I knew it must come to this when you married her.” “Did _you_ know anything about it?” the colonel asked, in some surprise; and Miss Rossiter replied: “Know about what? I knew it was a _mésalliance_, and they always prove unhappy.” “Hush, Christine, it is not that,” and the colonel spoke sternly, “Edith is a noble woman. She has been so tempted and tried, and is so broken now. Christine, I wish you were her friend, my friend. I want so much to unburden myself to some one. It would be such a relief. Christine, try and like my wife, and let me tell you the strangest tale you ever heard, and let me feel that we have your sympathy and support in the storm which will blow so hard.” He looked at her so pleadingly that Miss Rossiter’s heart was moved, and she said: “I like _you_, Howard, and know nothing against Edith as a woman. She is beautiful and you love her, and I daresay she is good, and I will be your friend: tell me the story, please; is it about Gertie? She showed me your letter in which you called her your daughter. What does it mean?” Colonel Schuyler glanced at his son, who was still sleeping quietly, then drawing his chair closer to Miss Rossiter and speaking in the lowest possible whisper for her to hear, he told her the story from beginning to end. And Miss Rossiter neither fainted nor went into hysterics, but for her behaved remarkably well, and with the exception of a few ejaculations of amazement when the story was at the most exciting point, never spoke a word until the colonel had told her everything there was to tell. Then her first remark was: “I am so glad it is Gertie. You need not be ashamed of _her_.” “Thank you, Christine,” the colonel said; “and now who will tell her, you or I, and when?” “_You_, and as soon as she can bear it. I think she is too tired now, too much fatigued; she ought to have perfect rest. If I knew Godfrey was out of danger I should take her home with me. Perhaps I had better do it anyway,” Miss Rossiter replied, wondering at herself and her interest in Gertie Westbrooke, and why she could not feel more indignant at _that woman_, who really had been in a way an impostor after all.