But she had none; no pity. Was not this woman his wife; and had she shown pity. So she never stayed her words, never softened them, she gave him what appeared the hard, stern, agonising truth, and he groaned with very anguish as she spoke. "Is that all?" he asked at last. "All." "And you will swear it. Swear it!" he cried hoarsely. "I will. But you need not believe me. Ask your wife? See what she says." He moved his hands from his face. It looked as though years had swept over it. "You have broken my heart," he said, in a quivering voice. And then he left her. Amy had gone to her room, sad and thoughtful, with the feeling, at last, that her husband doubted her love; and yet, she did love him better than she ever thought she should. As she turned his words over in her mind, she determined on delaying no longer; but now, at once, tell him all. She dreaded his anger and sorrowful look; but that, anything was better than the loss of his love. So she sat and listened, and awaited his coming. But he came not. The luncheon bell rang, and she went downstairs wondering at his absence. "I am sorry to say Mr. Linchmore has heard some bad news, Mrs. Vavasour," said Mrs. Linchmore. "My husband! Where is he?"--exclaimed Amy, panic stricken. "It has nothing to do with him," replied Mr. Linchmore, "my brother has, unfortunately, been wounded." And he looked somewhat surprised at her sudden fright. Then Amy was glad Robert was absent. "I am sorry," she faltered. "I hope it is not serious;" and her pale face paled whiter than before. "No, I trust not. He has been out with General Chamberlain's force." "He was very foolish to go to India at all," said Mr. Linchmore. "I dare say he would have had plenty of opportunities of winning laurels elsewhere; but he always was so impetuous,--here to-day and gone to-morrow." Then the conversation turned upon other subjects, and still Robert came not. Just as they rose from the table Frances came in. "Have you seen Mr. Vavasour?" asked Amy. "No. Has he not been in to luncheon? I thought I was late." Amy passed on up to her room again, and for a short time sat quietly by the fire, as she had done before; then, as the hours crept on, she rose and went to the window. The sun sank slowly, twilight came on, and the shadows of evening grew darker still; Amy could scarcely see the long avenue now, or the tall dark trees overshadowing it; and still she was alone. Then the door opened; but it was not her husband--it was Hannah, who stood looking at her with grave face. "If you please, Ma'am, I don't think Master Bertie is well. There is nothing to be frightened about; but he has been hot and feverish ever since he came home from his walk." CHAPTER XI. REPENTANCE. "Whispering tongues can poison truth, And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny, and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love, Doth work like madness in the brain."