“You forget, Pauline, that some people will always believe that she killed Belmont to hide her indiscretion.” “Oh! no, dear, you torture yourself unnecessarily. I am sure nobody will ever believe that; it is so obviously the deed of a rival!” “And Lawrence Dacre is here, you say?” “Yes; he arrived the same night that Gwendolyn did, and put up at the village inn.” “My sister, and my friend--two out of the three people I loved best in the world,” he murmured. “And my wife may be as false as they, for all I know! It is enough to make me wish I had never been born!” Pauline caught the muttered words, and pressed closer against his arm, her face uplifted to his. “You must not suspect me, Reggie; I will not have it! I have been a careless wife, I am afraid, because--because,” very softly, “I thought you cared for Gwendolyn more than you cared for me, and that discouraged me; but she cannot come between us now, and I mean to make you so happy! Will you try and forget all these miseries, for my sake?” All men are weak when they get into the hands of a clever, unscrupulous woman; and Reginald St. Maur was so loyal, that his wife must needs have a very tender hold upon his affections, if only because she was his wife, and he had wooed and won her in his youth. It is true that a coldness had grown up between them of late years; but he had always been ready to welcome her back into his heart, and now that Gwendolyn had failed him so cruelly, Pauline was his one last hope. He drew her to him, and kissed her thrice on the lips. “Try and make me forget,” he said, “and I will bless you all my life.” “Will you leave everything to me?” she asked, as she rested her still beautiful face on his shoulder and smiled up into his eyes. “Gladly--thankfully, my love.” “Very well, then, come into my room and write to Gwendolyn, while I bid Lady Lenox adieu, and make the last arrangements for our journey. I only want to save you pain, my dearest; and, indeed--indeed, it is best.” He followed her passively into the house, and up-stairs. Gently coercing him into a chair, she brought writing materials, placed a pen between his fingers, and then, stooping forward, whispered between two kisses: “Do your duty, but do it gently; for whatever her blame may be, you are the children of one mother, and were all in all to each other once.” “Thank you for the reminder,” he answered gravely; and then she rustled away, and left him to his painful task. When she returned, half an hour later, the letter lay on the desk ready to go, and, as if she feared he might draw back even yet, she caught it up and rang at once for Clémentine. “Put that carefully in the letter-bag,” she said, when the woman answered the summons; “and then come and put on my cloak.” “Must I see Lady Lenox?” her husband asked, when they were alone once more.