He stretched out his arms as though to embrace her; but, followed by the bewildered Mrs. Bird, she swept past him, and soon they were driving back to Kent Street, leaving Samuel standing bare-headed upon the pavement in the rain, and gazing after her. In the passage of No. 8, Sally was waiting to present Joan with a bouquet of white flowers, that she had found no opportunity to give her as she went out. Joan took the flowers and, bending down, kissed the dumb child; and that kiss was the only touch of nature in all the nefarious and unnatural business of her marriage. Mrs. Bird followed her upstairs, and so soon as the door was closed, said,— “For pity’s sake, Joan, tell me what all this means. Am I mad, or are you?” “I am, Mrs. Bird,” she answered. “If you want to know, I have married this man, who has been in love with me a long while, but whom I hate, in order to prevent Sir Henry Graves from making me his wife.” “But why, Joan? but why?” Mrs. Bird gasped. “Because if I had married Sir Henry I should have ruined him, and also because I promised Lady Graves that I would not do so. Had I once seen him I should have broken my promise, so I have taken this means to put myself out of temptation, having first told Mr. Rock the whole truth, and bargained that I should not go to live with him for another year.” “Oh! this is terrible, terrible!” said Mrs. Bird, wringing her hands; “and what a reptile the man must be to marry you on such terms, and knowing that you loathe the sight of him!” “Do not abuse him, Mrs. Bird, for on the whole I think that he is as much wronged as anybody; at least he is my husband, whom I have taken with my eyes open, as he has taken me.” “He may be your husband, but he is a liar for all that; for he told me that he was Sir Henry Graves, and that is why I let him come up to see you, although I thought, from the look of him, that he couldn’t be a baronet. Well, Joan, you have done it now, and as you’ve sown so you will have to reap. The wages of sin is death, that’s the truth of it. You’ve gone wrong, and, like many another, you have got to suffer. I don’t believe in your arguments that have made you marry this crawling creature. They are a kind of lie, and, like all lies, they will bring misery. You have a good heart, but you’ve never disciplined it, and a heart without discipline is the most false of guides. It isn’t for me to reproach you, Joan, who am, I dare say, ten times worse than you are, but I can’t hold with your methods. However, you are married to this man now, so if you’re wise you’ll try to make the best of him and forget the other.” “Yes,” she answered, “I shall if I am wise, or if I can find wisdom.” Then Mrs. Bird began to cry and went away. When she had gone, Joan sat down and wrote this letter to catch the post:— “DEAR SIR,