As a matter of fact, unless I tell you all I can tell you nothing, and so must be content to accept your censure. I would not speak of such a thing to others; but to you, who are my second self, and have been the receptacle of my confidences since we were at Eton, I am surely justified in making the revelation. And, after all, my friend, you can put away those wire-drawn notions of honour, as Miss Linisfarne is not worthy of being considered in any way. She is a base and designing woman. You must agree with this estimate of her character--harsh though it seems--when I tell you that she tried to lower Meg in my eyes, and almost succeeded in blackening my character to Meg. Such uncalled-for malignancy is, to my mind, worthy of blame. She must be beaten with her own weapons, punished for her spiteful behaviour, and generally condemned--at all events in this letter, which is strictly confidential. It is useless for me to attempt to fathom her character. Originally it may have been a noble one, but twenty years of solitude have warped it strangely. Dr. Merle, who is the father of Meg, made a confession to me the other day. He heard a rumour that I was to marry Miss Linisfarne, and thereupon came to tell me that I was not to do so. He justified this declaration by the confession that his real name was Mallard--that he had been engaged to Miss Linisfarne twenty years ago, and that she had ruined his life. More than this he refused to tell me, but said Tinker Tim could reveal all. The gipsy declined confession until I married Meg; so, as I intend to do so shortly, I hope to be fully informed of all these mysteries. As I surmised, there is a connection between Tim and Dr. Merle and Miss Linisfarne; but what it is I cannot guess, so must possess my soul in patience until the gipsy chooses to open his mouth. After my interview with Merle--or Mallard, as that is his real name--I received a message from Miss Linisfarne asking me to call and see her. I went unwillingly, as I was by no means prepossessed in her favour by the revelation of the doctor. The interview was of the most painful character. She said that Meg was engaged to a certain Byrne of Silkstone, and finally offered me her hand, her name, and her wealth. I refused all three, and, not knowing how to extricate myself from so awkward a position, uttered the name of Mallard. Its effect was magical. She fainted, and I, having committed her to the care of her housekeeper, hastened away. I need hardly say that nothing will induce me to set foot again in her house.