"Hugh had told me that he had had an entanglement with a married woman. I knew it long before he spoke of it, but just because he risked losing me by owning it I loved and trusted him all the more. I thought he was, at any rate, an upright man. After Lord Newhaven's death he asked me to marry him, and I accepted him. And when we were talking quietly one day"--Rachel's face became, if possible, whiter than before--"I told him that I knew of the drawing of lots. (He thought no one knew of it except the dead man and himself.) And I told him that he must not blame himself for Lord Newhaven's death. He had brought it on himself. I said to him"--Rachel's voice trembled more and more-"'It was an even chance. You might have drawn the short lighter yourself.' And--he--said that if he had, he should have had to abide by it." The Bishop shaded his eyes with his hand. It seemed cruel to look at Rachel, as it is cruel to watch a man drown. "And how do you know he did draw it?" he said. "It seems Lord Newhaven left his wife a letter, which she has only just received, telling her so. She brought it here to-day to show me." "Ah! A letter! And you read it?" "No," said Rachel, scornfully, "I did not read it. I did not believe a word she said about it. Hugh was there, and I told him I trusted him; and he took the letter from her, and put it in the fire." "And did he not contradict it?" "No. He said it was true. He has lied to me over and over again; but I saw he was speaking the truth for once." There was a long silence. "I don't know how other people regard those things," said Rachel at last, less harshly--she was gradually recovering herself--"but I know to me it was much worse that he could deceive me than that he should have been Lady Newhaven's lover. I did feel that dreadfully. I had to choke down my jealousy when he kissed me. He had kissed her first. He had made that side of his love common and profane; but the other side remained. I clung to that. I believed he really loved me, and that supported me and enabled me to forgive him, though men don't know what that forgiveness costs us. Only the walls of our rooms know that. But it seems to me much worse to have failed me on that other side as well--to have deceived me--to have told me a lie--just when--just when we were talking intimately." "It was infinitely worse," said the Bishop. "And it was the action of a coward to draw lots in the first instance if he did not mean to abide by the drawing, and the action of a traitor, once they were drawn, not to abide by them. But yet, if he had told me--if he had only told me the whole truth--I loved him so entirely that I would have forgiven--_even that_. But whenever I alluded to it, he lied." "He was afraid of losing you."