A suspicion of this sort had once flashed across Edith's mind. It was during the altercation at the Dalton chapel. Still, as this suspicion was thus confirmed, her surprise was extreme, and she said not a word, but looked steadily at her. And in the midst of other thoughts and feelings she could not help seeing that great changes had come over Miss Fortescue, as she called herself, in addition to those which were consequent upon her resumption of feminine attire. She was pale and thin, and looked ten years older than she used to look. Evidently she had undergone great suffering. There were marks of deep grief on her face. Much Edith marveled to see that one who had acted so basely was capable of suffering such grief. She could not help being reminded of that expression which she had seen on this same face when they were arranging that false marriage; but now that deep remorse which then had appeared seemed stamped permanently there, together with a profound dejection that was like despair. All this was not without its effect on Edith. It disarmed her natural indignation, and even excited pity. “Miss Dalton,” said the visitor, in a voice that was quite different from the one which she remembered--a voice that was evidently her natural one, while that other must have been assumed--“Miss Dalton, I have come to try to do something, if possible, toward making amends for--for a frightful injury. I know well that amends can never be made; but at least I can do a little. Will you listen to me for a few moments, not with regard to me, but solely for your own sake?” Edith said nothing, but bowed her head slightly. She did not yet know how far this betrayer might be sincere, and wished to hear and judge for herself. “Will you let me, first of all, make a confession to you of my great sin?” she continued, slowly and painfully. “You will understand better your own present situation. I assure you it will be a help to you toward freeing yourself. I don't ask you to believe--I only ask you to listen.” Edith again bowed. “I will tell you all, then. I was an actress in London; my name was Fortescue. I was a celebrity at Covent Garden. It was there that I first met Captain Dudleigh. I need say no more about him than this: I loved him passionately, with a frenzy and a devotion that you can not understand, and my fate is this--that I love him yet. I know that he is a coward and a villain and a traitor, but even now I would be willing to die for him.” The voice was different--how different!--and the tone and manner still more so. The careless “Little Dudleigh” had changed into a being of passion and ardor and fire. Edith tried to preserve an incredulous state of mind, but in vain. She could not help feeling that there was no acting here. This at least was real. This devoted love could not be feigned. “He swore he loved me,” continued Miss Fortescue. “He asked me to be his wife. We were married.” “Married!” cried Edith, in a tone of profoundest agitation.