"Do you know?" Brett began after a moment's pause. "In spite of this story that was in the papers to-day I find it hard to believe that he has really come back. He was quite capable of starting the story himself from a distance for the sake of giving you pain, but he knows as well as we do that if he comes here he comes to serve his time in prison." Marion seemed to be trying to think over the situation. "Stop!" she said at last. "You know that there was a woman, too, though we never spoke of her, you and I. But every one knew it. People used to pity me for that before they knew the rest. Do you not think it possible that she may have written those letters to you?" "Oh, no! I know John Darche's handwriting. I have good cause to know it." "Yes, I suppose you are right," answered Marion thoughtfully. "Did any one man ever accumulate so much wickedness in a lifetime? He was not satisfied with one crime. And yet he was not the only bad man in the world. What does a girl know of the man she is to marry? She sees him day after day, of course, but she only sees the best side of him. She knows nothing of what he does, nor of what he thinks when he is not with her, but she imagines it all, in her own way, with no facts to guide her. Then comes marriage. How could I know?" "Indeed, it would have been hard for any girl to guess what sort of man John Darche was." "Please do not talk about that." "And how do you know that I am any better man than John Darche?" asked Brett, suddenly. "What do you know of my comings and goings when I am not here, or how I spend my time? How do you know that I am not bound by some disgraceful tie, as he was? I have been in all sorts of places since we said good-bye on that winter's evening. Do you remember? I have wandered and worked, and done ever so many things since then. How do you know that there is not some woman in my life whom I cannot get rid of?" He had not changed his position while speaking. When he paused for her answer she went up to him, laying her hands upon his shoulders and looking into his face. "Harry! is there any other?" "No, dear." But his eyes answered before he spoke. "I knew it. You have answered your own question. That is all." "Thank you." As she drew back he caught her hand and held it, and his words came fast and passionately. "No. That is not all. That is not half. That is not one-thousandth part of what I ought to say. I know it. Thank you? My whole life is not enough to thank you with. All the words I ever heard or know are not enough--the best of words mean so little. And they never do come to me when I want them. But those little words of yours are more to me than all the world beside. I do thank you with all my strength, with all my heart, with all my soul, and I will live for you with all three. Why should I say it? You know it all, dear, much better than it can be said, for you believe in me. But it is good to say--I wish it could have been half as good to hear."