“Why, how hasty you are.” “True; I am daily expecting a letter from Nellie, and I do begin to think that I have nerves. And now, to discipline these excitable nerves, I will not look at the letter until after tea.” “Pooh, my love, I should much rather you would read it now and get it off your mind,” said Philip Helmstedt, placing her in a chair beside the little stand, and setting a lamp upon it, before he put the letter in her hand. He watched her narrowly, and saw her lips grow white as she read the postmark and superscription, saw the trembling of her fingers as she broke the seal, and heard the half-smothered exclamation of joy as she glanced at the contents; and then she quickly folded the letter, and was about to put it into her pocket when he spoke. “Stay!” “Well!” “That letter was not from Mrs. Houston.” “No; you were aware of that; you saw the postmark.” “Yes, Marguerite; and I could have seen the contents had I chosen it, and would, under all the circumstances, have been justified in so doing; but I would not break your seal, Marguerite. Now, however, that I have delivered the letter, and you have read it, I claim the right to know its contents.” Marguerite held the letter close against her bosom, while she gazed upon him in astonishment and expectation, not to say dread. “With your leave, my lady,” he said, approaching her; and, throwing one arm around her shoulders, held her fast, while he drew the letter from her relaxing fingers. She watched him while he looked again at the postmark “New York,” which told next to nothing, and then opened and read the contents--three words, without either date or signature, “All is well!” that was all. He looked up at her. And her low, deep, melodious laughter--that delicious laughter that charmed like music all who heard it, but that now sounded wild and strange, answered his look. “Your correspondent has been well tutored, madam.” “Why, of course,” she said, still laughing; but presently growing serious, she added: “Philip, would to God I could confide to you this matter. It is the one pain of my life that I cannot. The time may come, Philip, when I may be able to do so--but not now.” “Marguerite, it is but fair to tell you that I shall take every possible means to discover your secret; and if I find that it reflects discredit on you, by Heaven----” “Hush! for the sake of mercy, no rash vows. Why should it reflect discredit upon any? Why should mystery be always in thought linked with guilt? Philip, I am free from reproach!” “But, great Heavens! that it should be necessary to assure me of this! I wonder that your brow is not crimsoned with the thought that it is so.” “Ah, Philip Helmstedt, it is your own suspicious nature, your want of charity and faith that makes it so,” said Marguerite. “Life has--the world has--deprived me of charity and faith, and taught me suspicion--a lesson that I have not unlearned in your company, Mrs. Helmstedt.”