“Yes, father,” Everard answered wearily, with the air of one who did not really comprehend. “I hear,—I care,—but I am so tired to-night. Let me off, won’t you, till another time, when I can talk with you better and tell you all I feel.” “No, I won’t let you off,” the judge replied. “I intend to know why you are so indifferent to Bee. Is it, as I have suspected, that yellow-haired woman? Because if it is, by the lord Harry, you will be sorry! She shall never come here; never! The bold-faced, vulgar thing!” “Father!” and Everard roused himself at last, “you must not speak so of Josephine. I will not listen to it.” That was the speech which fired the train, and the judge grew purple with rage as he demanded by what right his son forbade him to speak as he pleased of Josephine. “What is she to you?” he asked, and with white, quivering lips Everard answered back: “_She is my wife!_” The words were spoken almost in a whisper, but they echoed like thunder through the room, and seemed to repeat themselves over and over again during the moment of utter silence which ensued. Everard had told his secret, and felt better already, as if the worst was over; while his father stood motionless and dumb, glaring upon him with a baleful light in his eyes, which boded no good to the sorely-pressed young man, who was the first to speak. “Let me tell you all about it,” he said, “and then you may kill me if you choose; it does not matter much.” “Yes, tell me;” his father said, hoarsely; and without lifting up his bowed head, or raising his voice, which was strangely sad and low, Everard told his story,—every word of it, even to Josephine’s parentage and Rossie’s generous conduct in his behalf. Of Josephine herself he said as little as possible, and did not by the slightest word hint at his growing aversion for her. That would not help matters now. She was his wife, and he called her so two or three times, and did not see how at the mention of that name his father ground his teeth together and clutched at his cravat as if to tear it off, and give himself more room to breathe. “I have told you everything now, father,” Everard said in conclusion, “everything there is to tell, except that since that night I have not committed a single act of which I am not willing you should know. I have tried to do my best, as I promised mother I would the last time I talked with her. She believed in me then; she would forgive me if she were here, and for her sake I ask you to forgive me too. I am so sorry,—sorrier than you can possibly be. Will you forgive me for mother’s sake?”