My packet was handed to me, and I stood aside to open it. Ellen's budget I put into my pocket; I could not read her loving words with prying eyes around me. The lawyer's letter was bulkier than usual, and I tore it open. I read but a few lines when I reeled. "Hold up, mate," cried a man, catching me by the arm. "Bad news?" "No, no," I muttered, and the denial struck me like a spiritual blow the moment it was uttered. To some men the news which caused this shock would have brought a never-to-be-forgotten sorrow. To me it brought release from a chain which had galled my soul. Barbara was dead! It would be the worst kind of hypocrisy to say that I felt as a man feels at the loss of one who is dear to him. It was impossible--impossible. There are those who deem it fitting to assume a grief which finds no place in their hearts; it is common to see white handkerchiefs held before tearless eyes. Let it tell against me that I neither felt nor assumed such sorrow. Equally wrong--and at the same time unjust to myself--would it be to say that I rejoiced. But an immense weight was lifted from my heart. Barbara was dead and I was free! Yes, free to marry Ellen, to commence a new and purer life, to have a home which I could enter without fear; a home where love awaited my coming, where I could look in my child's face without shame, where I could show by my devotion how deeply I appreciated the sacrifices his dear mother had made for me. To remove the stigma which in the eyes of the world was attached to Ellen through her association with me--to give her my name, to call her "wife"--was this nothing to be grateful for? Was it for this that I should put on a mournful face and conjure false tears into my eyes? No. Heaven had sent me relief, had proclaimed that my long agony was over, had lifted the curse from me. It was not for me to play the hypocrite. My agitation somewhat subdued, I set myself to the perusal of the lawyer's letter. The details of Barbara's death were shocking and startling. Her depraved habits had been the cause of a miserable tragedy. The letter stated that the first intelligence the writer received of the event was through the newspapers, cuttings from which he enclosed. My wife, it seems, had not removed from her lodging in Islington where I last saw her. In the middle of the night an alarm of fire was raised, and the lodgers in the house had great difficulty in escaping. Barbara had not been thought of. She did not make her appearance and no cries proceeded from her room. When she was missed the firemen made their way to her apartment, and brought out her charred body. The fire, it was proved, had originated in her bedroom, and it was supposed that she overturned a lighted candle, and so caused the catastrophe.