Ethel sat as one bereft of speech. It was as if the tides of her physical life had been arrested in full flow and sent surging back to overwhelm heart and brain alike, only to be released a few moments later and let go madly on their way. As yet but one coherent thought could frame itself in her mind: “And this is the man whose promised wife I am!” Then she became conscious that Hetty was speaking again. “I told you just now, Miss Thursby, that I had eight letters in all from him, but there were only six in the workbox when he rifled it. The remaining two were in a drawer in my bedroom. I have brought them with me to-day for you to read if you would like to do so.” “Not for worlds!” gasped Ethel. “You are quite welcome to do so. You would then see for yourself how he used to write of me as his ‘darling Hetty,’ and his ‘sweet little wife that is to be.’ What wretches some men are, to be sure!” Ethel found herself automatically counting her heart beats—“one, two—one, two—one, two.” She was faint and dizzy. Hetty was regarding her with eyes that were blurred with tears. After a little, Ethel’s dizziness passed. Bending her gaze on Hetty, she said: “But what induced you to seek _me_ out—that is to say, me rather than anyone else—and tell me all this about Mr. Keymer?” “It was because I found out by accident that he was in the habit of carrying your likeness about with him, and I knew he was not the kind of man to do that unless——” Ethel held up her hand. “That is enough,” she said softly. CHAPTER XXII. FATHER AND SON “He is unworthy of either your love or mine,” were Ethel’s parting words to Hetty as they stood together in the porch at Rose Mount. With that she drew the other to her and kissed her, and then Hetty went her way with a full heart. Next day she went back home to Dulminster and recommenced the round of her daily duties, to all outward seeming as if nothing had happened to her. But for her the romance of life was over. In the darkened chamber of her heart she mourned alone over the corpse of her dead love. Some day, in all probability, she would marry; for although her lover had proved false to her, she had no intention of fading into an old maid with no prospect before her beyond that of teaching one generation of children after another. She looked forward to having a home of her own, and a husband to work for her; but, for all that, she did not fail to tell herself that although she would never marry anyone whom she did not like, and even love after a fashion, yet that she could never care for another as she had cared for the man whose vows had been written in water. With the memory of him was associated all the glamour and romance of her young life, which, once gone, can return never more.