"Yes," answered the lovely widow, in a low tone, "and murdered him! I would not believe it--no, I would not believe it! Bad and wicked as he is, he _could_ not be guilty of a crime so horrible. And, after all, it was partly my fault. Why did I not grow up into the likeness of an ugly old witch----?" She paused again, and smiled. There is in this lovely lady so much animation and vitality, so much pure love of life, so much sunlight, that they overcome her against her will, and break out in the midst of the gloomiest fits of melancholy and depression. Hers is a happy, joyous, and impulsive nature, and the blow that has fallen upon her is all the more cruel because of her innate brightness and gaiety of disposition. But it is merciful, also, that she is thus gifted. She might not otherwise have sufficient strength to bear up against her affliction. "We will, then," said our Reporter, "dismiss the possibility--which I confess is scarcely to be indulged in even by such a man as myself. As to your being beautiful, a rose might as reasonably complain that nature had invested it with grace of form and loveliness of colour." Mrs. Holdfast blushed at this compliment. "You are right in saying that such an idea as Frederick Holdfast being alive is too horrible to contemplate. The American newspaper says that his body was identified by a gentleman who knew him in Oxford, and who happened to be travelling through the State of Minnesota. It is a strange coincidence--nothing more--that on the precise day on which Frederick Holdfast ended his career, a friend should have been travelling in that distant State, and should have given a name to the dead stranger who was found near the laughing waters of Minnie-ha-ha." Mrs. Holdfast replied with a sweet smile. "Yes, it is a strange coincidence; but young gentlemen now-a-days have numbers of acquaintances, hundreds I should say. And everybody travels now--people think nothing of going to America or Canada. It is just packing up their Gladstone bag, and off they go, as happy as you please. _I_ couldn't do it. I _hate_ the sea; I hate everything that makes me uncomfortable. I love pleasure. Strange, isn't it, for me, a country girl, to be so fond of life and gaiety, and dancing and theatres? But we can't help our natures, can we? I would if I could, for you must think me a dreadful, dreadful creature for talking in this way just after my husband has been brutally killed! Don't think ill of me--don't! It is not my fault, and I am suffering dreadfully, dreadfully, though I _do_ let my light heart run away with me!" "How can I think ill of you?" said our Reporter; "you are child and woman in one." "Really!" she cried, looking up into his face with a beaming smile. "Are you really, really in earnest?" "You may believe me," replied our Reporter, "for my errand here is not a personal one, but in pursuance of my professional duties; and although you charm me out of myself, I must be faithful."