“My brother Willie swore that he would kill me for the disgrace that I had brought on the honest name of Laurens. When I came back home to see my sister he tried to carry out his threat. I do not blame him, nor must you, for my stepfather had goaded him to madness by his taunts and slurs. Poor boy! He is sorry now for his insane deed, and the world must never know.” He smothered some angry words under his dark mustache, for Pansy was beginning to speak again in her soft, hopeless little voice: “While I lay here waiting for Willie to bring you, I made some clever little plans. Juliette went with the Wyldes, did she not?” “Of course.” “Then you will telegraph her to-morrow that I have changed my mind, and will go North to some gay watering place, but that she will remain under the chaperonage of Mrs. Wylde. My presence in this house can be kept a dead secret until I get well enough to go away--into a convent, perhaps--into lasting exile, certainly. Do not grieve, mamma,” as a whimper of protest came from the little woman’s grieved heart. “You will have your other children, you know.” Then, looking back at her husband, went on plaintively: “In the meantime, you will have gone away, and by and by you will write back to your friends that poor little Pansy is dead and buried. You will come home to Juliette then, and--after a while--you will forget.” The plaintive voice broke, and Colonel Falconer sat still for a few moments, lost in deep thought. Suddenly he spoke: “You are very clever,” he said. “I thought it all out for your sake. I was so anxious that no disgrace should touch you,” she answered humbly. “Poor little one!” he muttered; then rose and laid his hand solemnly on her head. “Dear, you have been bitterly punished for your girlish fault,” he said gravely; then, in tones vibrating with tenderness, he added: “You are my beloved wife still. I forgive your deception, and I will never forsake you.” CHAPTER XXXIV. IMAGINARY DECEIT. “Rosalind, what do you think of this?” asked Juliette, coming up to her friend with an open letter in her hand. It was the second day after her arrival at the White Sulphur Springs, and they were out on the lawn before the grand hotel. All was brightness and gayety. Throngs of beautiful women and handsome men lent variety to the sylvan scene, and the merry music played by the band made one’s step light and one’s heart gay. “What is it, Juliette?” asked Miss Wylde curiously. “A letter from my uncle, in which he explains the cause of his wife not joining us here.” “Is she not coming, then?” asked Mrs. Wylde, in a tone of regret. “No.” “But why not?” “She was taken suddenly ill that afternoon, but would not send us word, lest we should wait for her and be disappointed in going. She is better now, and has taken up an idea that sea air would be of more benefit to her than the springs,” replied Juliette, reading from her uncle’s letter.