“Mary,” said her mistress solemnly, and after a long silence, “I am grieved beyond all power of words to tell at what you have just said; but the mischief may not yet be quite past mending. I have seen this--Mr Derrick--this very night, and therefore he will not receive your letter till, at earliest, to-morrow evening.” “No, nor then neither, my Lady, so far as that goes, for I was late for the London post; I put the letter in the box for the very reason that I might not be persuaded to change my mind by”---- “Then it has not yet left the village postoffice,” interrupted my Lady, hastily snatching up her bonnet from the table on which she had wearily put it down upon entering the room: “there is time to stop it yet.” “No, my Lady; I heard the postman's horn half an hour ago; and if it were otherwise, nothing would induce me to alter what I have already written--nothing--nothing!” repeated Mistress Forest, emphasising her last two words by beating with her foot upon the carpet. “Alas, dear friend, you know not what you say,” replied my Lady very gravely. “Give me your hand, Mary; nay, do not withdraw it coldly, for you will have need of comfort and support, almost as much, alas, as I----_Mary, Mary, this man is married already!_” The waiting-maid started from her seat with a shrill scream. “I don't believe it, I won't believe it; it is false. How dare you tell a lie to me, Lady Lisgard, only to gain your ends?” “Hush, hush, Mary; did you ever know me to tell a lie, my friend? It is true as that yonder moon is rising, that this man has a wife alive. Do not weep so passionately.” “The perjured villain; the false, bad man; the wicked, wicked wretch!” cried the waiting-maid, her eyes flashing through their tears. “Nay, above all, do not blame _him_, Mary, for he knows it not himself; he does not, indeed.” “What? Not know whether he's married or not!” sobbed the unhappy bride-elect. “I don't believe that, at all events, even if I believe you. He has married so many, he doesn't know rightly who is his wife; that is what you mean, I see. Sailors are all alike. O dear, dear, dear, when Mrs Welsh comes to know of it! And the monster will have got my letter by to-morrow night, to shew about! How nearly have I been committing bi--bi--bigamy!” “Calm yourself, dear Mary, calm yourself. Your trouble is nothing to what I suffer, and must continue to endure for my life long.”