"Well! just when matters were at their worst, a casual acquaintance happened to speak of a young English heiress, and it occurred to Edward for the first time that marriage might cut the knot. He arranged to meet the girl--it was a deliberate plan. Ah! I see you have heard her story; but what she evidently _did_ not, would not, understand, was, that when they did meet, he fell in love with her for herself! She was his mate, his ideal, the one woman in the world who had power to awake his best self; to make him selfless, and in earnest about life. He was overcome with shame at the remembrance of his own scheming. At one time he believed it to be his duty to punish himself by leaving her without saying a word, but his passion was too strong, and circumstances hurried on the marriage. Her aunt died--" "Yes. She told me. Oh, but _why_ did he pretend? _Why_ didn't he tell her that he knew about the money?" His face fretted into lines. He looked terribly distressed. "Ah! that hits me hard. He wrote to me, Miss Harding--we had kept up a correspondence at intervals since our school days--and he had an exaggerated faith in my advice. His conscience was torturing him. He put the whole case to me. Should he tell her--should he confess? He hated the idea of marrying under false pretences. On the other hand he hated, as any lover would hate, to lower her opinion, perhaps to plant the seeds of future suspicions. Her silence as to her own wealth seemed to show that she had dreaded a mercenary love, that it was sweet to her to feel that he was in ignorance. He guessed that she was storing up the news as a sweet secret to be revealed to her husband. Well, as I say, he put the whole case before me, and I--I advised him to keep silent. He had wronged her in intent, but not in deed, for no man could love more deeply, more disinterestedly than he then loved her. Every word proved that. It was a wonderful letter, written straight from the heart--" I interrupted in breathless haste:-- "Have you got it? Did you keep it? Can you find it now?" To my unspeakable relief he nodded his head. "I can. It's not often that I keep letters, but this was an exception. I was naturally anxious about giving the right advice. I put the letter in my pocket-book, to read and re-read. Then, just the day before the wedding, I caught a chill, was in bed for a month with pleurisy. The first news I heard on getting up was--that she had gone! At once I thought of the letter, and was thankful I had kept it; I locked it away in my safe. I felt that some day, when she was found--Later on I wrote to her lawyers, and tried to bully them into giving me her address. I meant to send it to her myself, and force her to believe. But they swore that they knew no more than I did myself. Liars!" "No! It was true. She was ill for months; in bed! absolutely cut off--"