“Yes,” replied the other—the same man who had accompanied Ross on his visit to De Grainges’ cell—“with her inexperience and impetuous temper, there is no judging what extravagance she might enact. She might even start off in search of him, and then—” Here a sensation of faintness came over Zulima, and she lost a few words. When the mist cleared from her brain, Ross was speaking. “He would not see her. You do not know the man—see!” Ross took a letter from his pocket, and the two held it between them, while Ross once or twice pointed out a paragraph with his finger and commented on it in a voice so low that Zulima could only gather what he said from the expression of his face. The first words that she could distinguish were: “This silence has already driven her wild; you will have a fine time of it when she hears this gossip about a rival.” “It may not reach her; indeed, how can it?” “These things always reach head-quarters sooner or later,” was the reply, so far as it reached Zulima, for that moment the horse which Ross rode became tired of inaction and shied around suddenly; his rider with difficulty secured the letter, which was crushed in his hand, as he hastened to draw the curb, while an envelope, which had contained it, fluttered to the ground. “Let it go, let it go. I have all that is important,” cried Ross, checking his companion, who was about to dismount, and reining in his impatient steed with difficulty. The next instant they were both out of sight. Scarcely had they gone, when Zulima sprang from her covert and seized the envelope. It was her husband’s writing, addressed to Ross, the post-mark Philadelphia—a letter from her husband and not to her! Zulima held her breath; she looked wildly around, as if in search of something that could explain this mystery; then her eyes fell to the writing again. Tears, that seemed half fire, flashed down upon the paper; her lips began to quiver, she covered the fragment of paper with passionate kisses, and then cast it from her, exclaiming wildly, “Not to me—not to me!” Zulima returned home that day as she had never done before. The slow, creeping pace, so eloquent of depression and baffled hope, that had previously marked her return home, was exchanged for a hurried tread and excited demeanor. She was fully aroused to a sense of wrong, to a knowledge that some mystery existed which involved her own future. All her suspicions were vague and wildly combined with such facts as lay before her, but not the less powerful and engrossing. She found Ross in the hall, standing by the back-door, which opened to the garden, and talking to his traveling companion. The conference was checked as she came up, and she heard Ross say, quickly, “Hush! hush! she is here!” Then the two stepped out and sauntered slowly along the garden-walk. Zulima followed their footsteps, and with the wild fire of excitement burning in her cheeks and eyes.