I suppose I must have slept, though I was not conscious of it, for I did not hear Ernest enter the room, and yet when I looked again, he was sitting in the opposite window, still as a statue, looking out into the depths of night. I started as if I had seen a spirit, for I believed myself alone, and I did not feel less lonely now. There was something dejected in his attitude, and he sighed heavily as he turned and leaned his forehead against the window sash. I rose, and softly approaching him laid my hand on his shoulder. "Are you angry with me, Ernest?" I asked. He did not answer, or turn towards me; but I felt a tremulous motion of his shoulder, and knew that he heard me. "What have I done to displease you, dear Ernest?" again I asked. "Will you not speak to me and tell me, at least, in what I have offended?" "I am not offended," he answered, without looking up; "I am not angry, but grieved, wounded, and unhappy." "And will you not tell me the cause of your grief? Is not sympathy in sorrow the wife's holiest privilege?" "Gabriella, you mock me!" he exclaimed, suddenly rising and speaking in a low, stern voice. "You know that you are yourself the cause of my grief, and your words are as hollow as your actions are vain. Did you not promise, solemnly promise never to deceive me again, after having caused me such agony by the deception I yet freely forgave?" "Tell me, Ernest, in what have I deceived? If I know myself, every word and action has been as clear and open as noonday." "Did you ever tell me your teacher was your lover,--he with whom you were so intimately associated when I first knew you? You suffered me to believe that he was to you in the relation almost of a father. I received him as such in my own home. I lavished upon him every hospitable attention, as the friend and guide of your youth, and now you suffer me to hear from others that his romantic love was the theme of village gossip, that your names are still associated by idle tongues." "I always believed before that unrequited love was not a theme for vain boasting, that it was a secret too sacred to be divulged even to the dearest and the nearest." "But every one who has been so unfortunate as to be associated with you, seems to have been the victims of unrequited love. The name of Richard Clyde is familiar to all as the model of despairing lovers, and even Dr. Harlowe addresses you in a strain of unpardonable levity." "O Ernest, cannot you spare even him?" "You asked me the cause of my displeasure, and I have told you the source of my grief, otherwise I had been silent. There must be something wrong, Gabriella, or you would not be the subject of such remarks. Edith, all lovely as she is, passes on without exciting them. The most distant allusion to a lover should be considered an insult by a wedded woman and most especially in her husband's presence."