this calamity, he would not have felt it as he felt it now; and in the knowledge there was denial of the reality of grief. No such thought as "How am I to live without her?" the natural utterance of bereavement, arose in Wilmot's heart; though neither did he profane his wife's memory or do dishonour to his own higher nature by even the most passing reference to the object which had so fatally engrossed him. The strong hand of death had curbed that passion for the present, and his thoughts turned to Kilsyth only with remorse and regret. But the wife who had had no absorbing share in his life could not by her death make a blank in it of wide extent or long duration. He was still lingering in his room, when he was told that Mrs. Prendergast had arrived and was in the drawing-room. The closely-drawn blinds rendered the room so dark that he could not distinguish Henrietta's features, still further obscured by a heavy black veil. She did not rise, and she made no attempt to take his hand, which he extended to her in silence, the result of agitation. She bowed to him formally, and was the first to speak. Her voice was low and her words were hurried, though she tried hard to be calm. "I was with your wife during her illness and at her death, Dr. Wilmot," she said; "and I am here now not to offer you ill-timed condolences, but to fulfil a trust." Her tone surprised Wilmot, and affected him disagreeably. There had never been any disagreement between himself and Mrs. Prendergast; he was not a man likely to interfere or quarrel with his wife's friends; and as he was wholly unconscious of the projects she had entertained towards him, he had not any suspicion of hidden malice on her part. Emotion he was prepared for--would indeed have welcomed; he was ready also for blame and reproaches, in which he would have joined heartily, against himself; but the calm, cold, rooted anger in this woman's voice he was not prepared for. If such a thing had been possible--the thought flashed lightning-like across his mind before she had concluded her sentence--he might have had in her an enemy, biding her time, and now at length finding it. He did not speak, and she continued: "I presume you have heard from Dr. Whittaker the particulars of Mabel's illness, its cause, and the means used to avert--what has not been averted?--" "I have," briefly replied the listener. "Then I need not enter into that--beyond this: a portion of my trust is to tell you that Dr. Whittaker is not to blame." "I have not blamed him, Mrs. Prendergast." "That is well. When Mabel knew, or thought, I fear hoped, that her life was in danger, her strongest desire was that you should be kept in ignorance of the fact." "Good God! why?" exclaimed Wilmot. "I think you must know why better than I can tell you," replied Henrietta pitilessly. "But, at all events, such was the case. Dr. Whittaker wrote to you, but she suppressed the letter. She gave it to me on the night she died. Here it is."