“What an arrant little hypocrite it is!” said he, drawing his arm around her waist; “and with all the will in the world to deceive, what a poor actress! My child, I know your heart is breaking this very moment at my cruelty, my utter barbarity, and if you had only the courage, you 'd tell me I was a beast!” “Oh! Tom,--oh! dear Tom,” said she, hiding her face on his shoulder. “Dear Tom, of course, when there 's no help for it. And this is a specimen of the candor and frankness you promised me!” “But, Tom,” said she, faltering at every word, “it is not--as you think; it is not as you believe.” “What is not as I believe?” said he, quickly. “I mean,” added she, trembling with shame and confusion, “there is no more--that it 's over--all over!” And unable to endure longer, she burst into tears, and buried her face between her hands. “My own dear, dear sister,” said he, pressing her to his side, “why have you not told me of this before?” “I could not, I could not,” sobbed she. “One word more, Lu, and only one. Who was in fault? I mean, darling, was this _your_ doing or _his?_” “Neither, Tom; at least, I think so. I believe that some deceit was practised,--some treachery; but I don't know what, nor how. In fact, it is all a mystery to me; and my misery makes it none the clearer.” “Tell me, at least, whatever you know.” “I will bring you the letter,” said she, disengaging herself from him. “And did he write to you?” asked he, fiercely. “No; _he_ did not write,--from _him_ I have heard nothing.” She rushed out of the room as she spoke, leaving Tom in a state of wild bewilderment. Few as were the minutes of her absence, the interval to him seemed like an age of torture and doubt. Weak, and broken by illness, his fierce spirit was nothing the less bold and defiant; and over and over as he waited there, he swore to himself to bring Trafford to a severe reckoning if he found that he had wronged his sister. “How noble of her to hide all this sorrow from me, because she saw my suffering! What a fine nature! And it is with hearts like these fellows trifle and temper, till they end by breaking them! Poor thing! might it not be better to leave her in the delusion of thinking him not a scoundrel, than to denounce and brand him?” As he thus doubted and debated with himself, she entered the room. Her look was now calm and composed, but her face was lividly pale, and her very lips bloodless. “Tom,” said she, gravely, “I don't think I would let you see this letter but for one reason, which is, that it will convince you that you have no cause of quarrel whatever with _him_.” “Give it to me,--let me read it,” burst he in, impatiently; “I have neither taste nor temper for any more riddles,--leave me to find my own road through this labyrinth.” “Shall I leave you alone, Tom?” said she, timidly, as she handed him the letter.