Katy was not weeping now and her face was like that of some accusing angel as she continued: "I thought my heart was broken when I heard you talk so of me and Silverton, but that was nothing compared with what came next, when your mother spoke of Genevra. I thought it was my baby she meant at first, and the tightness around my heart was giving way, for if you did complain of me to your mother, I could forgive that because you were baby's father; but Genevra Lambert! oh, Wilford, I died a thousand deaths in one when I first heard of her and understood why you objected to the name our baby finally bore. You did not wish to be so constantly reminded of the other wife. I could not sit there longer, the room around me grew so black, so I struggled to my feet and reached the door, going into the street and thinking once I would end my wretched life in the distant river; but something turned my steps toward home and I came, thinking it all over and suffering such agony. Oh, Wilford, why did you keep it from me? What was there about it wrong and where is she buried?" "In Alnwick, at St. Mary's," Wilford answered, determining now to hold nothing back, and by his abruptness wounding Katy afresh. "In Alnwick, at St. Mary's" Katy cried. "Then I have seen her grave, and that is why you were so anxious to get there, so unwilling to go away. Oh, if I were lying there instead of Genevra, it would be so much better, so much better." There was sobbing now, in a moaning, plaintive way which touched Wilford tenderly, and smoothing her tangled hair, he said: "I would not exchange my Katy for all the Genevras in the world. She was never as dear to me as you. I was but a boy, and did not know my mind when I met her. Shall I tell you about her now? Can you bear to hear the story of Genevra?" There was a nod of assent, and Katy turned her face to the wall, clasping her hands tightly together, while Wilford drew his chair to her side and began to read the page he should have read to her long before. CHAPTER XXXV. WHAT THE PAGE DISCLOSED. "I was little more than nineteen years of age when I left Harvard College and went abroad with my only brother, the John or Jack of whom you have so often heard. Both himself and wife were in delicate health, and it was hoped a voyage across the sea would do them good. For nearly a year we were in various parts of England, stopping for two months at Brighton, where, among the visitors, was a widow from the vicinity of Alnwick, and with her an orphan niece whom I often met, and whose dazzling beauty attracted my youthful fancy. She was not happy with her aunt, upon whom she was wholly dependent, and my sympathies were all enlisted, when, with the tears shining in her lustrous eyes, she one day accidentally stumbled upon her trouble and told me how wretched she was, asking if in America there was not something for her to do.