Then Jennie told the whole horrible story—of her secret marriage—of which her parents had heard before—of the many devices by which her husband had kept her away from her parents, even after they had received her penitent letter, and forgiven her, and invited her and her bridegroom to visit them; of their wanderings through Europe, stopping at the great gambling centers; of his abandonment of her; or her pursuit of him over land and sea; of their meeting at night in the streets of New York, just when he was on the eve of marriage with another woman; of his fright at her appearance, his instant repudiation of her, and their bitter altercation, which ended in his stabbing her and leaving her for dead on the sidewalk of the deserted street, “In the dead waste and middle of the night.” At this point of the story Mrs. Campbell screamed and flung her hands up to her eyes as if to shut out the horrible vision her imagination had conjured up from the words of Jennie. Then there followed a pause in the narrative until Hetty had recovered herself. Meanwhile the curate sat in grim silence, like a man who resolves but does not mean to speak. It was Jennie who broke the spell. “That is the very worst, mamma. I have nothing to tell worse than this—no, nor half as bad—and you see that it did not kill me. And now what I have to tell you is mostly a pleasant experience; for when I recovered consciousness, which was after many hours, I found myself on a nice, white bed in a pleasant room, with the sweetest, kindest woman’s face, like an angel’s face, bending over me, and my new-born baby lying beside me. Yes; my wound had been in the flesh of my left breast, shocking me into a swoon, but not fatal—as he had supposed it to be—and not even dangerous. Under some anæsthetic—I suppose, though I do not know—my wound had been dressed, and my baby born, and I awoke in such a heaven of peace and good will, with my precious baby by my side, and with angels of mercy all about me, that, mamma, every vestige of anger against my husband for all his wrongs to me vanished from my bosom; although there remained a shrinking from the thought of ever meeting him again, and a horror of him that I feel can never be overcome in this life. As soon as I was well enough to bear the ordeal I was questioned as to my assailant; but I would not tell who he was. The police searched my room on Vevay Street, and found his miniature; but it happened to be the one which had been taken when he was in the army, in his regimental uniform, and with his military mustache, and it bore his monogram, K. M. They brought it to me, but I would have nothing to say to it; nor was it available to trace Montgomery, for he now wore a citizen’s dress, had grown a full, long beard, and he bore another name—a name supported by documentary and direct evidence—a name which it will surprise you to hear—but let that pass for the present.” “Why not tell us now?”