Thea sat staring at that cruel letter like one dazed. Her cheeks went pale, then crimson, with an overpowering sense of shame. Hitherto she had cherished a profound pity for the unhappy woman who, having been fortunate enough to win Norman de Vere’s heart, had been too weak to hold it; now, a burning indignation against the dead woman heaved in her breast. How had she dared wound him with that false and hateful accusation--he, her hero, her king? “Oh, my love, my darling, you bore this for my sake! I understand now why there was no divorce,” she murmured; and her beautiful eyes filled with tears--the hot tears of a woman’s love and sorrow--although she looked scarcely more than a child sitting there with the box of toys, her long curls, still worn child-fashion, falling about her shoulders like a veil of sunshine. “How could she wound him so?” the young wife sobbed, in bitterest indignation. “She did not love him; hers was a selfish passion--not true, self-sacrificing love. Ah! now I no longer pity her. She was not worthy of my Norman. Oh, Heaven help us--my child and me--to make him so happy that he will wholly forget her and the cruel stabs she dealt his generous nature.” There came a light tap upon the door. It was her mother-in-law’s light step outside. Thea pushed the old letter under the full draperies of her dress, and called out: “Come in.” Mrs. de Vere’s sweet old face, framed in waves of snowy hair, took on an expression of solicitude as she saw Thea’s tear-wet face. “Oh, my dear! what is it?” Then, as she saw the scattered toys: “What, you have been weeping over the old playthings? Would you like to be a child again, my daughter?” “No, no; it is not that, dear mother!” Thea cried, hastily. She stood a moment irresolute, with her little hand under the folds of her dress; then, going closer to Mrs. de Vere, she said, faintly: “I will tell you the truth. While looking through my old picture-books I came across a letter that I found on the floor and put away in my childish days--to destroy, I suppose, as my little scissors were with it. Then I must have forgotten it, and it remained there until now, when I read it, and--and--it gave me the--heartache,” sighing. “A letter?” Mrs. de Vere said, uncomprehendingly. “Here it is; but I suppose you read it long ago, mother;” and Thea put the letter in her mother-in-law’s hand, and turning away began to walk nervously up and down the floor. Mrs. de Vere read it, and the past rushed over her mind. “I remember this,” she said. “Norman was so angry he threw it down upon the floor. When we looked for it we thought you had cut it up, there were so many bits of paper on the floor.” “I think I cut the envelope into paper dolls,” said Thea. “I wish it had been the letter,” sighed the old lady. “It was true, then? My husband’s first wife was wicked enough to doubt her husband’s honor,” Thea cried, vehemently.