I inclose a letter which reaches me from an unknown source, with an anonymous request that it may be forwarded to you. I am, dear madam, yours faithfully, JOHN THORNHILL. The letter inclosed was addressed to “Lady Francis Onslow.” She broke the cover of that. It, too, was short. It ran: Your husband has left you forever, and I have taken care you shall never see your child again. LUCILLE DE VIGNY. That was all. CHAPTER XV. BY MRS. HUNGERFORD. Fenella rose to her feet. There had been one terrible moment when all things faded from her, but she overcame that. She _would_ not faint! She turned to the doctor, who, watching her anxiously, now came a step nearer to her. In truth, her face, always colorless, was now ghastly; but there was a sudden strength in her eyes, her whole demeanor, that betokened, as it were, a new life within her. Lately, so weak she had been, she had fainted at any small thing that fell into her path threatening to annoy her; but now, when she had reached the most momentous point of her life, her hardihood returned to her, and the old, sweet, girlish gayety, that might almost be termed audacity, developed into a courage true and noble. This was no time for weakness. Now was the hour to rise and assert herself! If this devilish letter meant that evil machinations were at work to deprive her of her husband and her child, now was the time to fling aside all considerations and fight for her own. Her own! _were_ they her own? A terrible remembrance of the past when he, Frank, had been untrue to her, returned again. What if he should be untrue _again_! And again with that woman! Her heart for a second died within her, but another thought restored her to herself. Her child! Her darling! Her Ronny! He, at least, was all her own. She need fear no rival in his affections. There was something so tragic in the expression of her young, beautiful face that the old doctor went closer to her and touched her arm as though to rouse her. “What is it, my dear?” asked he nervously. He had grown very fond of her during these past weeks, when she hovered between life and death. “Read that!” said she, holding out to him the fatal letter. She let her eyes rest full on his--the lovely eyes now so much too large for the pale, small face. Her long white robe fell to her feet, showing but too plainly the attenuation of her figure. She looked like some tall, sad, mediæval saint, with her white clinging garments and her nimbus of red-brown hair. “Good Heavens!” said the kind little doctor, letting the letter flutter to his feet. “But what can this mean? Your husband--so devoted as he seemed--and---- Who is this woman, then? This Mme. de Vigny?”