"I stayed in that house for over six months, Evelyn. The woman was a saint--the kindliest, gentlest creature I have ever met. I told her that I was ill and in trouble, and wanted to rest, and she put me to bed and nursed me like a child. I was a long time in getting well. The very strings of my being seemed to have snapped. I lay torpid week after week, and the good soul took care of me and asked no questions. She was one of those rare spirits who pray to God to guide them day by day, and mean literally what they ask. God had sent me to her in my need--that was her firm belief--and what she did for me she did for Him. I had left no message behind--only that terrible letter sealed up, to be given to my husband on his return. I heard afterwards that he had searched for me far and wide, had even crossed over to England, thinking I must be here. When I was well enough I sent for my aunt's lawyer and took him into my confidence. He let me know when my husband returned to America, and as soon as possible after that I came to England myself, under another name. I was no longer his wife in heart. Why should I keep a name which was given to me under false pretences? Five years have passed since then. It seems like a century, and--here I am!" "And all this time you have heard nothing? Nothing has happened?" "Yes. I have heard. He seems to have--felt it a good deal! It is always painful to be discovered, and for a man's wife to leave him before the honeymoon is over is hurtful to his pride. He makes periodic efforts to find me, but my lawyers are loyal, and will give no clue." "And the settlement? The money you made over to him? Does he draw that still?" She flushed and frowned. "No. It appears not. He tells the lawyers that he will never touch it. I suppose if he changed his manner of living it would be remarked, and people might guess something of the truth. His object is, of course, to throw all the blame on me." The bitterness of her voice hurt me so that I ventured a timid protest. "Charmion, I am not taking his part. I think he was contemptible beyond words; but--_isn't_ it possible that he has regretted, that he has not taken the money because he was _ashamed_?" "Possible, of course; but I should say extremely improbable. However, I am no longer concerned in his motives. He gave up his liberty for a certain price, and the price is his. The money accumulates at the bank. Some day, no doubt, he will find it convenient to draw it." I felt a movement of revolt, and cried quickly:-- "There is one person I despise even more than the man himself, and that is the creature who kept that letter, and sent it to you too late to prevent the marriage! If it were to be done at all, why could it not have been done before?" Her lips curved.