And before he went Mark must know this for certain, and he chided himself for having put it off so long. True she had been sick and confined to her room for a long while after Aunt Betsy’s memorable visit; and when she was able to go out, _Lent_ had put a stop to her mingling in festive scenes, so that he had seen but little of her, and had never met her alone. But he would write that very day. She knew, of course, that he was going. She would say that he did well to go; and she would answer _yes_ to the question he would ask her. Mark felt sure of that; but still the letter he wrote was eloquent with his pleadings for her love, while he confessed his own, and asked that she would give him the right to think of her as his affianced bride—to know she waited for his return, and would crown it at last with the full fruition of her priceless love. “I meet a few of my particular friends at Mrs. Grandon’s to-night,” he added, in conclusion. “Can I hope to see you there, taking your presence as a token that I may speak and tell you in words what I have so poorly written?” This note he would not trust to the post, but deliver himself, and thus avoid the possibility of a mistake, he said; and half an hour later he rang the bell at No.——, asking “if _Miss Lennox_ was at home.” She was; and handing the girl the note, Mark ran down the steps, while the servant carried the missive to the library, where upon the table lay other letters received that morning, and as yet unopened; for Katy was very busy, and Helen was dressing to go out with Juno Cameron, who had graciously asked her to drive with her and look at a picture she had set her heart on having. Juno had not yet appeared; but Mark was scarcely out of sight when she came in with the familiarity of a sister, and entered the library to wait. Carelessly turning the books upon the table, she stumbled upon Mark’s letter, which, through some defect in the envelope, had become unsealed, and lay with its edge lifted so that to peer at its contents was a very easy matter had she been so disposed. But Juno, who knew the handwriting—could not at first bring herself even to touch what was intended for her rival. But as she gazed the longing grew, until at last she took it in her hand, turning it to the light, and tracing distinctly the words, “My dear Helen,” while a storm of pain and passion swept over her, mingled with a feeling of shame that she had let herself down so far. “It does not matter now,” the tempter whispered. “You may as well read it and know the worst. Nobody will suspect it,” and she was about to take the folded letter from the envelope, intending to replace it after it was read, when a rapid step warned her some one was coming, and hastily thrusting the letter in her pocket, she dropped her veil to cover her confusion, and then confronted _Helen Lennox_, ready for the drive, and unconscious of the wrong which could not then be righted.