During the reading of this letter Colonel Pelham had stood motionless. Little by little the lines upon his brow grew deeper, and his mouth set firm and rigid. An ashy gray replaced the flush on face and forehead. He passed his hand wonderingly once or twice across his eyes, and at last stretched it forth. “Let me see that one moment,” he said; and, taking it, he glanced over the pages, scrutinized the signature, and then, with an irrepressible shudder, handed it back. She stood in silence before him. Well she knew that now it was no time to speak. The blow had struck home. She watched him as again he passed his hand along his forehead in that dazed, almost helpless manner, and at last in a voice hoarse and strange he spoke: “Say no word of this to any one. I—I shall think it all over. There is—there must be some mistake, some explanation. Do you mean,” he asked, with sudden vehemence, “that they assert worse than this of her—of him?” “They do,” was her answer. And without a word he turned and left the house. Going to the side-windows, she followed him with her eyes. With bent head and slow, uncertain steps he walked a few yards towards his office, whither the adjutant had gone, but, as though suddenly recollecting himself, he turned abruptly and went to the bluff-side east of the post. There she lost sight of him, and with vague uneasiness she left the parlor and sought her room. Presently Grace’s voice, blithe, low, and happy, was heard. The sweet words of a favorite song came floating back through the hallway, and her light footsteps went dancing down the stairs and into the empty parlor. “More like herself than she has been for days,” thought the mother, as she listened to the thrill and gladness that rose in every mellow note. Were her efforts, then, all in vain? Had she been too unwary in her guard? Had she allowed her, after all, to become interested in this man, and that, too, when fortune, position, independence, luxury, lay at her feet? Bathing her hot face in lavender-water, her ladyship stood in deep anxiety, even distress, before her mirror. She had seen nothing of Glenham that morning; he had not even come to inquire after Grace. What could that mean? Then how had it happened, too, that, despite all her warnings, Grace had gone riding with Truscott? She could not control her annoyance. Down she went into the parlor to investigate. It was the first meeting of mother and daughter that day, for Grace still believed that her mother had been asleep when she entered her room before breakfast. The girl had by no means forgotten her ladyship’s conduct of the previous day, and her kiss of greeting, though dutiful, was not warm and loving as of yore. Her song, too, ceased the instant she heard the stairs creaking under the maternal weight. “You look unusually well, Grace,” madame deigned to say. “I was not aware that you proposed riding again to-day, much less that you would ride with Mr. Truscott.”