At last, more disappointed than he cared to own, he said, ‘Mrs. Harnham, my darling is so flurried that she doesn’t know what she is doing or saying. I see that after this event a little quietude will be necessary before she gives tongue to that tender philosophy which she used to treat me to in her letters.’ They had planned to start early that afternoon for Knollsea, to spend the few opening days of their married life there, and as the hour for departure was drawing near Raye asked his wife if she would go to the writing-desk in the next room and scribble a little note to his sister, who had been unable to attend through indisposition, informing her that the ceremony was over, thanking her for her little present, and hoping to know her well now that she was the writer’s sister as well as Charles’s. ‘Say it in the pretty poetical way you know so well how to adopt,’ he added, ‘for I want you particularly to win her, and both of you to be dear friends.’ Anna looked uneasy, but departed to her task, Raye remaining to talk to their guest. Anna was a long while absent, and her husband suddenly rose and went to her. He found her still bending over the writing-table, with tears brimming up in her eyes; and he looked down upon the sheet of note-paper with some interest, to discover with what tact she had expressed her good-will in the delicate circumstances. To his surprise she had progressed but a few lines, in the characters and spelling of a child of eight, and with the ideas of a goose. ‘Anna,’ he said, staring; ‘what’s this?’ ‘It only means—that I can’t do it any better!’ she answered, through her tears. ‘Eh? Nonsense!’ ‘I can’t!’ she insisted, with miserable, sobbing hardihood. ‘I—I—didn’t write those letters, Charles! I only told _her_ what to write! And not always that! But I am learning, O so fast, my dear, dear husband! And you’ll forgive me, won’t you, for not telling you before?’ She slid to her knees, abjectly clasped his waist and laid her face against him. He stood a few moments, raised her, abruptly turned, and shut the door upon her, rejoining Edith in the drawing-room. She saw that something untoward had been discovered, and their eyes remained fixed on each other. ‘Do I guess rightly?’ he asked, with wan quietude. ‘_You_ were her scribe through all this?’ ‘It was necessary,’ said Edith. ‘Did she dictate every word you ever wrote to me?’ ‘Not every word.’ ‘In fact, very little?’ ‘Very little.’ ‘You wrote a great part of those pages every week from your own conceptions, though in her name!’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Perhaps you wrote many of the letters when you were alone, without communication with her?’ ‘I did.’ He turned to the bookcase, and leant with his hand over his face; and Edith, seeing his distress, became white as a sheet. ‘You have deceived me—ruined me!’ he murmured. ‘O, don’t say it!’ she cried in her anguish, jumping up and putting her hand on his shoulder. ‘I can’t bear that!’