She was forced to be satisfied, but a nameless feeling of "something" made the drive a rather silent one, although each tried spasmodically to start a conversation. Tea over, Philip drew Bessie out into the garden, and sitting down in a rustic scat, said, "Bessie, come and sit down: I want to talk to you." Simply, straightforwardly as of old, she came. "Bessie dear," said Philip, "I have something to say, and don't know how to say it. But I guess the only way is to tell the truth at once. There is no such person as George Hammond." Bessie's heart-blood stopped for what seemed half an hour, and then she articulated slowly, "Then who wrote those letters, Philip?" "_I_ did," he answered sadly. She started away from him as if he had been a serpent. She walked up and down like a caged animal. At last her scorn burst forth: "_You_, Philip Aubrey! _you_! You have dared to laugh me to scorn, have you? You have dared to presume that because I am what the world calls an 'old maid,' I am a fit mark for the arrows of the would-be wits? Philip Aubrey, all I have to wish is, that your actions may recoil upon yourself." She would have said more, but her feelings overcame her entirely, and sitting down she covered her face with her hand, the tears trickling through her fingers. "Oh, Bessie! Bessie! they have. Bitterly have I repented of my ruse. But I know if you will hear me you will not judge me harshly." She drew herself up, and throwing all possible scorn into her face, said, "Go! and if there remains in your body one vestige of feeling belonging to a gentleman, never let me look upon your face again." Like a stricken cur he went from her presence. He knew her too well: he knew that once roused as she now was, years could not efface her impression. He knew she would listen to no apology, no word of any kind; so the only thing left for him to do, as she had expressed it, was to "leave her presence." As soon as he was fairly gone Bessie rose, went into the house, locked herself in her own room and struggled with herself. She did not even pretend to herself that her trouble was not hard to bear. What did life hold for her now? She had not even the cousin on whom her affections had so long been centred as her one living relation. "Oh, if he had only died! if he had only died before he deceived me this way!" she moaned, "I think I should have borne it more easily. It cannot be called the thoughtless trick of a boy: he is too old, and has carried it on too long, and planned it all too systematically, for that." Three hours after she came from her vigil pale and silent, but a conqueror. A little card stuck in the drawing-room mirror told her that Philip had started for New York on his way to his Western home again.