He began again to realize that it was his duty to be indignant in attitude and peremptory in tone, but he was also conscious of feeling very sorry for Isabel. The village editor often described himself, and was uniformly characterized by others, as being “no hand for women.” His own brief career as a married man--it seemed almost a dream now, and a very painful dream, with a short period of great happiness, then a slightly longer season of illness, poverty, debt, despair, and then the rayless gloom of death in his scarcely established home--had taught him next to nothing of the sex, and inclined him against learning more. The impressions of womankind which clustered about the memories of his girl-wife were, however, all in the direction of gentleness and softness. As he reflected, it grew increasingly difficult for him to put on a harsh demeanor toward his sister-in-law. She might deserve it well enough, but it was not in his heart to speak ugly words to a pretty and troubled woman at such a time. He stumbled on: “Yes, the youngster is fearfully cut up about the whole thing, and he _had_ to talk to somebody. He’s always been used to telling me everything. He is not a tattler, though, and I’m bound to say he only told me because I questioned him, and insisted on his making a clean breast of it. Then I sent him down to the office, and I came back here, thinking it might be best for all concerned to have a frank talk with you about it.” She had a course mapped out now in her mind. “I am sure that your motives are good, John,” she said, “and that you will be fair and candid. I confess I don’t see what there is to be gained, specially, but you no doubt know best. What is it you wanted to talk over?” “Well, it isn’t easy to state it, off hand. Perhaps I might as well begin by speaking of motives, as you did. I own that when I came in I wasn’t so sure that your motives were good, as you say you are about mine.” “That is candid, at all events.” “I want to be perfectly open and above-board with you, Isabel. You seem to have got into your head yesterday--I won’t say you have it now--some horrible and ridiculously wild suspicion of Seth----” “I know what you mean,” she interposed, with nervous haste. “You mustn’t think of that at all! You mustn’t blame me for it! I was simply distracted--mad--out of my senses. I don’t know _what_ awful thing my fancy didn’t conjure up. Don’t pay any attention to that!” “But the mischief of it is that you seem to have spoken of this to--to somebody else. It would have been unimportant otherwise. _This_ complicates it badly. Don’t you see it does?” She made no answer, and kept her eyes on the figures in the carpet. “Don’t you see it does?” he repeated. “How do you know that I spoke of it to anybody?” she asked, after a pause, and still with downcast eyes. “That has nothing to do with it, Isabel. It’s true, isn’t it, that you did speak of it?”