Catherine glanced at it—it was the envelope she had directed to Mrs. Georgia Clifton, and she immediately answered— “Yes, certainly it is.” “Ah! it is; when was it written?” “The last day of your dear mother’s life. Ah! now I remember, it was from that day you took your favor from me.” “Yes, madam,” he said, withdrawing the fatal note from the envelope, and laying it before her, adding, “Do you acknowledge _this_ as your writing also?” Catherine looked at the note without heeding the words, and raising her innocent eyes with wonder to his face, answered, without an instant’s hesitation— “Yes, assuredly, that is mine!” Her perfect unconsciousness should have convinced him of her innocence—would have done so perhaps, but that, prejudiced against her, he took her manner to be super-refined art; and determined to force her to the point, he said— “Would you swear it?” Catherine took up the letter and examined it. “Ay! read it, read it.” Catherine read the note, turned deadly pale, fell back in her chair, and let the paper drop from her hands—overwhelmed by the enormous wickedness of the forgery. Scarcely restraining a bitter curse, he picked up the fatal note, pushed the door open with his foot, crossed the hall, and entered his bed-chamber, banging the door after him. One stunned moment she sat thus, then started to her feet, bewildered, distracted, and with a wild impulse, fled across the hall and into his chamber, and sank at his feet speechless, mute, but catching his hand, and clinging to it. When she struggled and recovered her voice, she exclaimed, simply— “I did not write that letter, Archer. I did not write that letter.” He twisted his hand rudely out of her grasp, and turned away, without reply. She clasped her hands earnestly, exclaiming again— “I did not write that letter! It is impossible I ever should have conceived, much less have written such a letter! I do not know who wrote it. I never laid my eyes on it before!” An incredulous, insulting smile, was his reply. “Oh! what shall I say to convince you? _Indeed_, _indeed_ I did not do it!” “Come, perjure yourself! Swear it.” She was silent. “I ask you to swear it.” She was still silent. “Come, now—will you declare upon oath that you did not write that letter?” “God sees me! I did not!” “That’s no oath! Here’s the New Testament, swear upon the Holy Evangelists of Almighty God that you didn’t write it, and, perhaps, I will believe you, for well I know that many unprincipled people have a sort of fearful respect for an oath, which in them is not piety, but superstition. I think you just such a one! Come, now, swear that you did not write it!” He paused for an answer, but she looked at him in great trouble. “Will you do it?” “Major Clifton, I cannot!” “Not swear that you did not write it?” “No, sir.” “Then that only confirms and seals the truth of what I knew before, that, of course, you _did_ write it.” She wrung her hands in deep distress, and said—