The days of my love's convalescence were happy indeed. Most of the time we spent together, planning the future and gossiping about the past. Those were halcyon hours when we reckoned time only by the meals served to us by Simes, and we both looked forward to a visit to the old Lincolnshire town that was so very lethargic, so redolent of the "good old days" of our grandfathers. Once she received a letter left by a man, and marked "private." In this I scented mystery; for she never referred to it, and when I inquired who was the sender she merely replied that a friend had written to her. This was strange, for none knew that she remained with me. We had thought it best not to tell any one until all could be explained, for a lady who lives in a bachelor's chambers is looked upon with some suspicion if no very valid excuse can be given for such a flagrant breach of the _convenances_. The letter without doubt caused her much thought and considerable anxiety. By her face I detected that she was dreading some dire result, the nature of which she dared not tell me; and it was on that very afternoon that Jack Yelverton called to inquire after me, for I had neither written nor seen him since that night when the chalice at St Peter's had disappeared into ashes. He was stretched out in a chair smoking furiously, laughing more merrily than usual, and talking with that genuine _bonhomie_ which was one of his most engaging characteristics, when suddenly Muriel entered. They met face to face, and in an instant she drew back, pale as death. "I--I didn't know you had a visitor," she exclaimed half-apologetically, her cheeks crimsoning in her confusion. "Come in," I exclaimed, rising. "Allow me to introduce you," and I went through the conventional formality. Upon Yelverton's face I detected an expression of absolute wonder and bewilderment; but seeing that she treated him with calm indifference, he at once reseated himself, and the pair recovered their self-possession almost instantly. Puzzled at this strange complication, I spoke mechanically, explaining that Muriel was engaged to marry me, and that she had been ill, although I did not tell him the cause. Yet all Jack Yelverton's levity had in that brief moment of unexpected meeting departed. He had become brooding and thoughtful. I confess that I entertained doubts. So many things had recently occurred which she refused to explain, that day by day I was haunted by a horrible consuming suspicion that, after all, she did not love me-- that for some purpose of her own she was merely making shallow pretence. I fear that the remainder of Yelverton's visit was a dismal affair. Certainly our conversation was irresponsible and disjointed, for neither of us thought of what we said. Our reflections were far from the subject under discussion. At last the Vicar of St Peter's made his adieux, and when he had gone I awaited in vain her explanation.