"How can I tell that she is really dead?" say I, moodily: "you deceived me once. Perhaps some day she will come to life again to defy and torture me." "I do not think you have any right to speak to me in this way," replies he, quietly. "I may have deceived you passively once in my life by forbearing to mention what would do no good in the telling, and might have caused you grief, or at least, unpleasantness. But to you or any other being I have never lied. I saw the woman dead with my own eyes. I attended her funeral. I did not think proofs necessary; but if you require it I can produce a witness." He pauses calmly for a reply, being utterly passionless in his manner; but I give him none. I am still wondering at the change in him, the change in myself. "You will not believe me guilty of falsehood in such a case?" he says. "You surely must see I am speaking the truth." "I suppose so," I murmur, at length. "Poor woman! She did not long outlive her revenge." I sigh heavily, and my head droops. My thin white fingers clasp and unclasp one another aimlessly. My thoughts are so indistinct I can put them into no shape. The light falls upon my bent figure, my slight shrunken form. "Phyllis!" cries Marmaduke, springing to his feet with a sudden, sharp change of tone, "how white you are! how emaciated! how altered in every way! Have you been ill? Oh, my darling!"--with a groan--"I have ruined your life, and broken your heart: have I destroyed your health also?" He makes an impetuous movement towards me, as though he would catch me in his arms. "Don't do that," I cry, hastily, shrinking further into the recess of the window. "Do not touch me. Remember you are not--my husband." He stops short, and his eager arms fall empty to his sides. His face grows a shade paler. "True," he says, in a low voice: "I had forgotten that: you do well to remind me. Fortunately, it is a matter that can soon be put right." "Is it?" I question coldly. "Can any tiling that has once gone wrong in this world ever be put right again, I wonder." "This can, at all events." regarding me closely. "We must be married again here, and without delay. The few who know our wretched story can be our witnesses, and no one beyond need be a bit the wiser." "You forget that walls have ears, and that one's sin must always find one out." "There was no premeditated sin in this case, and"--speaking somewhat curtly--"I do not believe we have been found out. On my way through London coming down here, I sounded a few of my acquaintances on the subject, and all seemed ignorant of the real cause of our separation. However, that is an outside question altogether. The principal thing now is to put oneself beyond the reach of scandal. When will you wish the ceremony, Phyllis? Next week? I fear this being Friday, it will be impossible to arrange it sooner. You will want some of your friends with you." He is calm again, but is now watching me narrowly.