“Will I not? I have two urgent duties to perform now—one is to seek that lunatic, and have her taken care of; the other to hasten our marriage, Sophie, that everything seems to endanger, from naval officers to strolling maniacs.” “She is your wife!—I know she is! Every glance into your face deepens the conviction I feel.” “Do you not know that I lost my wife while living in the North?” “You lost her, but how?—by _death_? Possessions and persons are lost sometimes, and _found_ again. Nothing but the grave is inexorable. Come, has the grave inclosed your wife?” “Insulting! insolent! Take care, Sophie, you are heaping up wrath against a day of wrath.” “_You are!_ Were this incident known in the neighborhood—” “You would be laughed to scorn for your credulity. _Nonsense_, Sophie! Were the letters I brought here of so little weight?—was the approbation, the warm friendship of the venerable and sainted May, of such little worth, that the fancies of a moon-struck woman should be able to injure me, or should change my views and purposes towards you? Come, Sophie, it is best that you understand me. _I have no wife._ I assure you, upon my honor—my untarnished truth, Sophie, that I have no wife, and I _must_ have you! Your hand is the _one_ thing that I wish on earth, and I _must, must_ have it—_will_ have it.” Sophie was weeping bitterly. He stooped down, took her chin in his hand, and raised her tearful face, then sat beside her, and said, more gently than he had yet spoken— “Come, Sophie Churchill, I am no hypocrite, no villain, and God knows it. I have been the most unfortunate and the most injured man, perhaps, that ever lived; and some day, when you are prepared for it, you shall know it. As for the woman, poor creature, she must be cared for; and now, lest you should perchance cherish in your heart another suspicion, which yet you would never breathe, I will volunteer to say that I have never wronged that woman—never, so help me Heaven! Dismiss her from your mind, Sophie, and tell me, has Mrs. Gardiner Green been to see you?” “Yes, sir,” murmured Sophie. “And between you, you settled the day for our marriage.” “Yes, sir, but—” “Never mind _but_—what day did you fix?” “Mr. Withers, that is all over now—Mrs. Green, herself, if she knew—” “Never mind, my dear; what day _had_ you fixed? “Then we _had_ fixed the fifteenth.” “Thank you, Sophie!” and he sealed his thanks upon her lips, arose, and bidding her good night, left the spot. CHAPTER IX. THE WANDERER’S DEATH. “Oh, ask me not to speak her fate, Oh, tempt me not to tell The sin that made her desolate,— Passion she could not quell Alas! the grave can only be Fit refuge of her misery.” ANONYMOUS.