Yes! I was in Cottiswoode. I was Edgar Southcote's wife; at this thought my heart burned. I cannot express the fiery glow of pain which overpowered me by any other words. Since I entered this fatal house, I seemed to have lost sight of Harry. Harry my tender wooer, my loving bridegroom, the nearest and dearest of all who were near and dear to me, had disappeared like a dream. In his place stood my scorned and rejected cousin, he whose compassion had sought me out to make amends to me for a lost inheritance. A hundred circumstances came upon my mind now to direct suspicion to him--his desire to take our name, oh! heaven protect my name! it was no suggestion of his love--it was a mean and paltry lie! and he had succeeded--there was the sting--and my father's words came back upon me with a strange significance, but only to place my father among the other conspirators against my peace. The bond of our marriage lay upon our hearts and souls, for ever and for ever--for ever and for ever--not even in thought or for a moment could I deliver myself from this bondage--even when I died I would belong to him, and the very name upon my grave-stone would be that of Edgar Southcote's wife. I was passing up and down steadily, holding my hands clasped together. I could not be still and think of these things. I could not remember with composure where I was, and how I had been brought here. I went to the window again, and as I raised my hand to my face, I felt upon my neck the little chain with my mother's miniature--with a wild access of indignation I snatched it off; now I understood why it was that this connected him with my mother--that they found in my circumstances some resemblance to those of my father's shipwrecked life. I did not dash it now out of my hand as I was minded to do; with trembling fingers I put it away out of my reach, where the placid smile of that mild face could not drive me wild again. What could she or such as she understand of this misery which I was enduring now? At this moment some one knocked lightly at the door. I went at once and opened it--it was himself. I looked full at him, to find out how I could have been deceived. This was not my Harry. Harry was nothing but an ideal, and he was gone. This was the boy, my cousin, whom I had met upon the road some years ago, with his stooping figure and his timid step. Once more in my injured and passionate strength, full of bitter resentment and proud scorn, I stood firm by Edgar Southcote, and he humbled, downcast, self-reproachful, stood like a culprit before me. "May I come in, Hester?" he asked. I gave way to him in a moment, but I could not do it without a bitter word. "You are the master of the house--I have no right to admit or to exclude any one here."