“Then you wouldn’t have needed to believe a little,” answered John. “What did your father do with the letter?” “He had it in his pocket all day, and brought it home with him in the evening. You see--I’d been out--at the Crowdies’--and then I came home and shut myself up. I was so miserable--and then I fell asleep.” “You were so miserable that you fell asleep,” repeated Ralston, cruelly. “I see.” “Jack! Please--please listen to me--” “Yes. I beg your pardon, Katharine. I’m out of temper. I didn’t mean to be rude.” “No, dear. Please don’t. I can’t bear it.” Her lip quivered. “Jack,” she began again, after a moment, “please don’t say anything till I’ve told you all I have to say. If you do--no--I can’t help it--I’m crying now.” Her eyes were full of tears, and she turned her face away quickly to recover her self-control. John was pained, but just then he could find nothing to say. He bent his head and looked at his hand, affecting not to see how much moved she was. A moment later she turned to him, and the tears seemed to be gone again, though they were, perhaps, not far away. Strong women can make such efforts in great need. “I went into my mother’s room on my way down to the carriage to come here,” she continued. “Papa came in, bringing your letter. He had not opened it, of course--he only wanted to show me that he had received it, and he said he would destroy it after showing it to me. I looked at it--and oh, the handwriting was so shaky, and there were spots on the envelope--Jack--I didn’t want to read it. That’s the truth. I let him burn it. I turned over the ashes to see that there was nothing left. There--I’ve told you the truth. How could I know--oh, how could I know?” John glanced at her and then looked down again, not trusting himself to speak yet. The thought that she had not even wished to read that letter, and that she had stood calmly by while her father destroyed it, deliberately turning over the ashes afterwards, was almost too much to be borne with equanimity. Again he remembered what it had cost him to write it, and how he had felt that, having written it, Katharine, at least, would be loyal to him, whatever the world might say. He would have been a little more than human if he could have then and there smiled, held out his hand, and freely forgiven and promised to forget. And yet she, too, had some justice on her side, though she was ready and willing to forget it all, and to bear far more of blame than she deserved. Russell Vanbrugh had told her that a man might easily be convicted on such evidence. Yet in her heart she knew that her disbelief had waited for no proofs last night, but had established itself supreme as her disappointment at John’s absence from the ball. “Jack,” she began again, seeing that he did not speak, “say something--say that you’ll try to forgive me. It’s breaking my heart.” “I’ll try,” answered John, in a voice without meaning.