‘It must ’ave bin Mr. Treverton,’ said Mary, Laura’s maid. ‘I met ’im in the ’all. I dessay he were goin’ out to smoke his cigar. It was too dark for me to see his face, but he didn’t walk as gay and light as a gentleman ought on his wedding day, to my mind,’ added Mary, with authority. ‘Well, I dunno,’ remarked Mr. Trimmer, the butler, solemnly. ‘Perhaps a wedding ain’t altogether the comfortablest day in a man’s life. There’s too many eyes upon him. He feels as he’s the objick of everybody’s notice, and if he’s a delicate-minded man it kind of preys upon him. I can quite understand Mr. Treverton’s not feeling quite himself to-day. And then you see he comes into the estate by a fluke, as you may say, and he ain’t got it yet, and he won’t feel himself independent till the year’s out, and the property is ’anded over to him.’ Mr. Trimmer did not drop his aspirates habitually, like Mary; he only let one slip now and then when he was impressive. The hour was ended. For the last twenty minutes Laura had been sitting with her watch in her hand. Now she rose with her heart beating tumultuously, and went quickly down the wide old staircase, hastening to hear her husband’s explanation of his extraordinary conduct. He had promised to explain. Had she not been very foolish in torturing herself for this last hour with vain endeavours to fathom the mystery? Had she not been still more foolish when she jumped at conclusions, and made up her mind that John Treverton did not love her? There might be twenty other reasons for his grief, she told herself, now that the hour of suspense was ended, and that she was going to hear his explanation. She trembled as she drew near the door, and felt as if in another moment she might stumble and fall fainting on the threshold. She was approaching the most critical moment of her life, the very turning-point of her destiny. All must depend upon what John Treverton had to say to her in the next few minutes. She opened the door and went in, breathless, incapable of speech. She felt that she could ask him no questions, she could only stand there and listen to all he had to tell. The room was empty, Laura could just see as much as that in the fitful glow of the fire; and then a jet of flame leaped suddenly out of the dimness like a living thing, and showed her a letter lying on the table. He had written to her. That which he had to tell was too terrible for speech, and he had, therefore, written. Hope and comfort died within her at the sight of that letter. She hurried back to her dressing-room, where she had left the candles burning, locked herself in, and then, standing, faint and still trembling, by the mantelpiece, she tore open the envelope and read her husband’s letter. ‘DEAREST AND EVER DEAREST,--