The flimsy tissue of lies which Pierson had woven was quickly unravelled by Galbraith. The fact that the jury had for a time been misled by the false evidence, made their verdict more immediately unanimous than it might otherwise have been; and the cloud which had for a moment overhung John Graham was dispelled as quickly as a noxious vapor is blown away by a brisk westerly wind. He was cleared of every suspicion. Galbraith had surpassed himself in his management of the case, even in the eyes of his warmest friends. Had he not been working for the woman he loved? In exonerating his rival, he had done the only thing that in him lay to win Millicent’s gratitude. She had thanked him, and blessed him for his eloquence with tears and smiles. He had gained her friendship; and does not friendship soften into love more often than love crystallizes into friendship? CHAPTER XIX. "Je me dis seulement; à cette heure en ce lieu, Un jour, je fus aimé, j’aimais, elle était belle. J’enfouis ce trésor dans mon âme immortelle. Et je l’emporte à Dieu!" "A letter for you, Mr. Graham." "Very well; lay it down." The burly landlady placed the missive on the small, unpainted pine table which stood near the artist’s easel, and with a last glance at the feminine superscription, and the device of the golden Psyche which sealed it, left the room. It was late in the afternoon,--there would be only an hour more of light in which he could paint. Graham did not glance at the letter. If it had been a telegram it would have waited till the tender gray of the sky had been laid on the canvas. At last it grew too dim for him to distinguish the tints on his palette, and, throwing down his brushes, the young man rose and stretched his cramped limbs. He had not moved from his stool for four hours. As he paced up and down his narrow room, the letter caught his eye. He had quite forgotten its existence. It was from Millicent. He stepped close to the window, and by the waning light perused the words traced by a hand that surely had trembled in the writing. Twice he read it through, as if not understanding its import. Then, with a groan, he cast the letter upon the floor, and sank upon a low seat near by. His head supported by his hands, his elbows upon his knees, he sat, the picture of despair. With a sudden movement he grasped the missive and crushed it between his two hands, as if to avenge upon the senseless paper the pain which it brought to him.