Unconsciously to himself, Rufus Black read the brief paragraph aloud in a hoarse, strained, breathless sort of voice, and his father listened with head bent forward, and with a horrified look graven on his face, as upon stone. “Last evening,” the notice read, “as officer Rice was pursuing his usual beat, a young woman dashed past him, bonnetless, her hair flying, and ran out upon Waterloo Bridge. She was muttering wildly to herself, and her aspect was that of one beside herself. The officer, comprehending her purpose, rushed after her, but he was too late to arrest her in her dread purpose. She looked back at him, sprang up to the parapet like a flash, and with a last cry upon her lips--a name the officer could not make out--she precipitated herself into the river. In falling, her head struck a passing boat, mutilating her features beyond all semblance of humanity. She was dead when taken from the water, and will have a pauper’s burial unless some one comes forward to claim her remains. No token of her identity was found upon her person, but her handkerchief, floating on the water and picked up immediately by a boatman, bore the name of Lalla Bird. The girl, for she was very young, was pretty, and without doubt belonged to that frail class which more than any other furnishes us suicides.” Rufus Black read this paragraph to the very end, and then the paper fell from his nerveless hands. “Dead!” he said hollowly. “Dead!” “Dead!” echoed his father hoarsely. “_Dead!_” said Rufus Black, turning his burning, terrible eyes upon his father’s face. “And it was you who killed her! I loved her--I would have been true to her all her days, but you tore us asunder, and drove her to despair, madness and death. You are her murderer!” Craven Black started, nervously, and looked around him. “Don’t, Rufus--don’t,” he ejaculated uneasily. “Some one might hear you. The girl is to blame for killing herself, and no one else can be held accountable for it. I offered her money but she would not take it. It was the landlady who drove her to the--the rash act. The old woman listened at the door, and suddenly burst in upon us and called the girl some foul name and ordered her out of her house. The girl fled as if pursued by demons. I thought then she meant to kill herself--just as she has done!” A groan burst from Rufus Black’s lips. “My poor, poor wife!” he moaned. “She _was_ my wife, and she shall not lie in a pauper’s grave. I am going up to London--” “To make a fool of yourself,” interrupted Craven Black, recovering from his shock. “And to-morrow morning the papers will all come out with the romantic story that this girl was your wife, and the story will stick to you all your days. People will say that you drove her to her death. Your chance of becoming master of Hawkhurst will end on the spot. You will be cast out and abhorred. Others as pretty and as good as this girl have been buried at the public expense. Leave her alone.” “I cannot--”