I did remember it, and the recollection of those simple girlish days was like balm to the spirit. It was good for me to dwell on that time, and turn my thoughts away from the weary trials and anxieties that had beset my married life. At present, I was too weak to take in the fact that I was the uninvited guest of the rector, and that I had literally forced myself on the hospitality of an old friend who was displeased with me. Nursed and soothed and petted, I found my strength coming back faster than those around me had dared to expect. And when the evening was closing in again, I called Marian to my bedside and assured her (in a somewhat unsteady voice) that I was well enough to bear a good long talk. "Not a long talk, Louie," she answered. "But I think we may venture to say a few words to each other. Of course you want to know about Ronald, first of all?" "Yes, yes," I whispered, pressing her hand. "Well, I will begin with your departure from Chapel Place. Nobody missed you—nobody knew you had gone till your husband returned from the City. The first thing that he saw was your note on the mantelpiece, and the first thing that he did was to rush out of the house, call a hansom, and drive to Curzon Street to me." "Did he think that I had gone to you, Marian?" "I fancy that he did. He seemed sorely distressed to find that I could tell him nothing. At his request, I returned with him to Chapel Place, and found that nurse had just come home. She, too, was greatly troubled; but her quick instinct put us at once on the right track. She was sure you had fled to the dear old village, hoping there to find rest and peace." "Ah, she knew my longing for this place!" I said, faintly. "Then," Marian continued, "we lost no time in following you—Ronald and I." "Did he come with you? Oh, Marian!" "Did you suppose he could remain contentedly in town and wait for news? I don't tell you how distracted he was, it is because I fear to agitate you. But if you could have seen his misery and heard his self-reproaches, you would have felt your last doubt swept away. Ali, Louie, a wife should be very slow to doubt a husband's love. She may have a great deal to endure (most wives have), but she should guard her heart against jealousy, which is the worst foe of married life." "He gave me cause to be jealous, Marian," I said. "You did not go to that dreadful picnic; you did not see his attentions to his old love." "I know he was foolish, but not guilty. It is a mistake for a married man to be too intimate with an old sweetheart, even if he knows that he only gave her half a love, and that his wife has his entire heart. People are always ready to talk about those who have once been lovers; and Ida Lorimer was weak enough to want a little of the old homage." "She was more than weak," I said, with a passion that made Marian lift a warning finger. "She is a wicked, bold woman. On Thursday night—after the picnic—she wrote a shameful letter to my husband."