India was distracted—Clement Sutherland helpless. And Mark remained at Cashmere to take the direction of the funeral. Three days from the death, when all was over, Mark Sutherland sought the presence of the widow. He went to her with no tender condolements, but with the words of bitter truth and stern rebuke upon his lips. He found her in her faded and dingy boudoir. She arose at his entrance, and held out her hand to welcome him, but before his own had touched it, she sank down in her chair, burst into tears, and covered her face with her hands. He took a seat, and spoke: “I come to you, Mrs. Ashley, with no vain words of sympathy, which would seem as untrue to your sense as they would _be_ upon my lips. I come merely to set before you the stern realities of your position, and, if possible, to awaken you to its duties and responsibilities.” He paused a moment, and she lifted up her head and tearful face, saying, “Speak, Mark! you will not find me haughty now!” His lips curled, and then he compressed them. “Your husband is dead! You know too well what fatal power brought down that high, proud nature to dishonour and to death”—— “Speak—ay, speak—and spare not! I deserve it! Most of all, from you!” she exclaimed, in a voice of anguish. “Yet, India, for the kindred blood in our mutual veins—for the regard I once bore you, and the anxiety I still feel for you—I would point out a way of recovery”—— “Tell me, Mark! tell me! Oh! I know that I have been guilty! but not wantonly guilty, as you think! God knoweth that I have not! _One_ mad, impatient act—_one_ frantic act—led to all the rest—ruined all my life and his!”