“Yes, madam, I received your letter,” he answered, in a hard, cold tone of voice. “Then you know what else I should tell you here at your feet.” “I know that my daughter has eloped, and that my wife helped her off,” he replied, in the same dry tone, and with his head still averted. Alice could not see that his lips were bloodless and compressed, and his eyes burning with a fearful, lurid glare. His very quietude, hard and dry, and constrained as it was, deceived her. She took his hand again and pressed it to her lips, and held it to her bosom, murmuring softly: “Let us forgive each other! Oh, my husband, let us forgive each other! For many wrongs there is positively no other remedy in the wide universe but simple forgiveness—simple, magnanimous, sublime forgiveness. ‘It is impossible but that offenses will come,’ said the most merciful of all beings. It is impossible, says the experience of life, it is impossible but that disappointments, sorrows, pains, and partings will come. They are the conditions of our existence. We cannot escape them. Let us lessen their bitterness as much as we may. It is impossible but that troubles will come, but the vital question is whether we shall turn them to good or evil account—whether we shall live to any good end or not. Oh, my husband, make friends with me! We have only each other in the wide world upon whom to depend for our life’s comfort and happiness. Make friends with me!” She paused, covering his hand with fond caresses, pressing it to her lips, laying it against her cheek, holding it to her throbbing heart. He drew his hand from her gentle clasp, and folded his arms.