“Yes, do so. I think all the quicker when there's none by me.” He turned his back to the light, as he sat down, and began the letter. “I believe I ought to tell you first,” said she, as she stood with her hand on the lock of the door, “the circumstances under which that was written.” “Tell me nothing whatever,--let me grope out my own road;” and now she moved away and left him. He read the letter from beginning to end, and then re-read it. He saw there were many allusions to which he had no clew; but there was a tone in it which there was no mistaking, and that tone was treachery. The way in which the writer deprecated all possible criticism of her life, at the outset, showed how sensitive she was to such remark, and how conscious of being open to it. Tom knew enough of life to be aware that the people who affect to brave the world are those who are past defying it. So far at least he felt he had read her truly; but he had to confess to himself that beyond this it was not easy to advance. On the second reading, however, all appeared more clear and simple. It was the perfidious apology of a treacherous woman for a wrong which she had hoped, but had not been able, to inflict. “I see it all,” cried Tom; “her jealousy has been stimulated by discovering Trafford's love for Lucy, and this is her revenge. It is just possible, too, she may have entangled him. There are meshes that men can scarcely keep free of. Trafford may have witnessed the hardship of her daily life--seen the indignities to which she submits--and possibly pitied her; if he has gone no further than this, there is no great mischief. What a clever creature she must be!” thought he again,--“how easy it ought to be for a woman like that to make a husband adore her; and yet these women will not be content with that. Like the cheats at cards, they don't care to win by fair play.” He went to the door, and called out “Lucy!” The tone of his voice sounded cheerily, and she came on the instant. “How did you meet after this?” asked he, as she entered. “We have not met since that. I left the Priory, and came abroad three days after I received it.” “So then that was the secret of the zeal to come out and nurse poor brother Tom, eh?” said he, laughing. “You know well if it was,” said she, as her eyes swam in tears. “No, no, my poor dear Lu, I never thought so; and right glad am I to know that you are not to live in companionship with the woman who wrote that letter.” “You think ill of her?” “I will not tell you half how badly I think of her; but Trafford is as much wronged here as any one, or else I am but a sorry decipherer of mysterious signs.” “Oh, Tom!” cried she, clasping his hand and looking at him as though she yearned for one gleam of hope.