listening to every word till the end. Even after the end, it was some time before she moved or spoke. Then she pointed to it, and said faintly, ‘It is a letter--is he--has he gone away?’ ‘You have heard all this. I must tell you more--I must tell you all I know,’ said Ford. He was much agitated, his lips quivering, his voice now and then failing altogether. ‘I believe,’ he said, struggling to get out the words, ‘that the noise I made at his door saved his life, that he had thought for a moment of putting an end to everything; there was a pistol on the floor.’ She rose to her feet with a quick, sudden cry, ‘_That! That!_’ and clutched for support at the mantelpiece, against which Mr. Ford was leaning, and where there seemed to rise in the mirror a pale, white ghost, facing the darker figure. ‘Oliver,’ she cried, ‘Oliver! tell me everything. That is his last word, and he is dead!’ ‘No, no, no--oh, no!’ came in Trix’s voice from behind. Ford took her hands from their clutch on the marble, and put her back into her chair. All he was afraid of was that she might faint, or die, perhaps, in their hands. ‘He is not dead, so far as I know. He has gone away. How could he meet you? Oh, Grace, what can we say to you, Trix and I? It is our fault! My poor girl, cry or something. Don’t look like that. You must put him out of your thoughts.’ She shook herself free of him with impatience. ‘I am asking you about Oliver,’ she said. ‘Oliver! Where is he? Have you left him, with no one near him, no one to comfort him? Trix, are you going to him, or shall I?’ The husband and wife looked at each other in dismay. Mrs. Ford stilled in a moment her sobs and exclamations, not knowing what to reply. ‘You are nearest him in blood, but I am nearest in--’ Grace paused for a moment. ‘He will want to know that I--understand,’ she said slowly, as if speaking to herself. ‘He has no right to know anything about you,’ Ford said roughly, in the agitation of his mind. ‘You must think no more of him, Grace. He has no claim upon you. This miserable marriage--’ ‘Marriage,’ she said, again rising, resisting his attempt to support her. ‘You think a woman has no idea but marriage. What is that to me? I have been fearing I knew not what--and now my mind is relieved, I understand. It is not that I forgive him,’ she added, after a moment, with an indescribable look of tender pride and dignity, ‘I approve. You may blame him if you will--I approve. And if he should die, I accept his legacy. I thank God he had that trust in me, and that he did what was right. Though it should kill us both, what does that matter? He has done only what was right, and I approve!’ CHAPTER VIII.