“Stop crying,” she commanded quietly, “and try to tell me just what the trouble is.” With an effort the girl controlled herself. “James is going to lose all his money, the money he saved up so we could get married. It’s in the bank, and he says the bank is going to fail.” “What bank is it in?” “Mr. Bagsbury’s.” Her voice failed, and with a sob she buried her face in her hands. “Stop it,” Harriet commanded, almost roughly. She laid her hand on the girl’s arm. “You are very foolish to be frightened. The bank isn’t going to fail. Do you understand? I tell you it isn’t going to fail. Who--” and now it was her voice that halted in the throat--“who told James that it would?” “The coachman told James, and he said--” But Harriet knew who had told the coachman before the bewildered maid had time to speak the name. For a little, though Harriet’s words had quite reassured her, the mere impetus of her emotion kept the girl whimpering, her face still buried in her hands; but when she looked up the change that had come over her mistress startled her out of the very recollection of it. “What is it?” she cried, “what is the matter?” “Nothing at all. Only go away; I want to be by myself.” “But you are sick,” the maid persisted; “can’t I get you something? Shall I call Mr. Sponley?” “Certainly not,” Harriet spoke slowly and evenly; “there is nothing the matter;” but her affected composure vanished as the girl still hesitated at the door. “Oh, why won’t you leave me alone! Go, I tell you! Go!” The frightened maid ran out of the room, and Harriet closed the door behind her. So now she knew. Oh, why was it all so hopelessly evident! She had been trying to comprehend; but now she clasped her hands over her dry eyes as if to blot out the clear, cruel understanding that had come to her of her husband’s devious strategy. It was bad enough that the temptation of a promising campaign should have led him to turn upon his friend; but why--why should it not have been fair open fighting; why need it come to a piece of loathsome treachery like this blow from behind? She must stand by and see it struck; and then for always, she told herself, she must despise the author of it. In that hour Harriet felt the very foundation of her world trembling under her. She had no children, no friends, no interests but his,--nothing but her absolute devotion to Melville Sponley. And stanch as that was, the stroke he was aiming at John Bagsbury would cut to the root of it. She recalled that evening when first she had heard of his understanding with Curtin, and when she had asked him if there was anything that counted with him beside his one great ambition; whether his friendship for John and his affection for her were anything more than good investments. She had her answer now. Her first comfort came with the thought that it had not always been so. There had been a time when he cared, and as she was thinking of the time gone by she found his defence.