“Ye-es, in one sense,” Josephine said, with the air of one who is having something wrung from him unwillingly. “A great many people saw us married, for it was in a drama,—a play,—but none of them knew it was meant to be real and binding, except Everard and myself and the clergyman, who was a genuine clergyman. We knew and intended it, of course, or it would not have been valid. We were engaged, and did it on the impulse of the moment, thinking no harm. Nor was there, except that we were both so young, and Everard not through college. We told mother and sister, but no one else, and as the villagers did not know of our intention to be married, or that Dr. Matthewson was a clergyman, they never suspected the truth, and the secret was to be kept until Everard was graduated, and after that——” She spoke very slowly now, and drew long breaths, as if every word she uttered were a stab to her heart. “After that I hoped to get out of my false position, but there was some fear of Judge Forrest, which kept Everard silent, waiting for an opportunity to tell him, for I was not rich, you know, and he might be angry; so I waited patiently, and his father died, and I went to Europe, and thus the years have gone.” The blue eyes, in which the tears were shining, more from steadily gazing into the fire than from emotion of any kind, were lifted to Mrs. Rider, who was greatly affected, and then said: “Yes, I see; but when the judge died there was nothing in the way of acknowledging the marriage. I am surprised and disappointed in Everard that he should treat you thus.” Mrs. Rider’s sympathy was all with the injured wife, who seemed so patient and uncomplaining, and who replied: “He had good reasons, no doubt. His father disinherited him, I believe, and that may have had its effect; but I do not wish it talked about until Everard comes. It is very awkward for me that he is absent. I expected to meet him. I must come, of course; there was no other way, for mamma recently died, and the old home was broken up. I must come to my husband.”