“His eyes are like his father’s,” said Alice, “and nothing is more common than to see in the face of a child a dimple which entirely disappears in later life.” “Well, Alice, dear, I did not mean to awaken any painful reminiscence by my remark; I did not know you were so sensitive on the subject.” These words were uttered in the blandest tones, and the sweet smile which accompanied them was as beautiful as a sunbeam on a troubled sea; but Alice felt both pained and vexed. Agatha had recurred to the only unpleasant recollections of her whole life, and she could not determine whether it had been done by design, or was merely the result of thoughtlessness. The remark had not been without its effect upon Mr. Wentworth. He saw with surprise the evident vexation of his wife at the mention of Charles Wilson’s name, and while he feared to ask an explanation from her in her present feeble state of health, he determined to satisfy his curiosity by appealing to cousin Agatha. “Did you never hear of Charles Wilson?” exclaimed Agatha, in great apparent surprise, when, a few hours afterwards, he asked the question. “Never until I heard you mention him,” was the reply. “Then I ought not to tell you anything about him, because I cannot betray the confidence of a friend.” “But as a friend I entreat you to tell me.” “It is impossible, Mr. Wentworth:—what Alice has thought best to conceal I certainly will not disclose: strange that she should not have told you; there certainly ought to be the most perfect confidence between husband and wife.” “Agatha, you have excited such a painful interest in the secret, whatever it is, that I must know it.” “You will not betray me to Alice if I tell you?” “Certainly not, if secrecy be the only condition on which I can learn the truth.” “And you promise not to think harshly of poor Alice?” “It would be strange if I should think other than well of one whose purity of heart is so well known to me.”