After a pause she broke the silence--with infinite tact--not speaking too hurriedly. “It has been a terrible week,” she said. “Mother heard from Mr. Bodery that they were very ill; so we came. I never dreamt that it was so bad when you spoke of them. Five years it has been going on?” “Yes; five years. Thank you for coming, but I am sorry you should have seen it.” “Why?” “Every one should keep guard over his own skeleton.” She was looking at him now. “You look very ill,” she said curtly. “Where have you been?” “I was kidnapped,” he said, with a short laugh, “and then I got typhoid. The monks nursed me.” “You were in a monastery?” “Yes; in Brittany.” She was idly arranging the cups and saucers with her left hand, which she seemed desirous of bringing under his notice; but he could look at nothing but her face. “Then,” she said, “it would have been impossible to find you?” “Quite,” he replied, and after a pause he added, in a singularly easy manner, “Tell me what happened after I disappeared.” She did not seem to like the task. “Well--we searched--oh! Christian, it was horrid!” “I wondered,” he said, in a deep, soft voice, “whether you would find it so.” “Yes, of course, we _all_ did.” This did not appear to satisfy him. “But you,” he persisted, “you, yourself--what did you think?” “I do not know,” she answered, with painful hesitation. “I don't think I thought at all.” “Then what did you do, Hilda?” “I--oh, we searched. We telegraphed for Mr. Bodery, who came down at once. Then Fred rode over, and placed himself at Mr. Bodery's disposal. First he went to Paris, then to Brest. He did everything that could be done, but of course it was of no avail. By Mr. Bodery's advice everything was kept secret. There was nothing in the newspapers.” She stopped suddenly, and there was a silence in the room. He was looking at her curiously, still ignoring that little left hand. Only one word of her speech seemed to have attached itself to his understanding. “Fred?” he said. “Fred Farrar?” “Yes--my husband!” He turned away--walked towards the door, and then returned to the hearthrug, where he stood quite still. “I suppose it was a quiet wedding,” he said in a hard voice, “on my account; eh?” “Yes,” she whispered. He waited, but she added nothing. Then suddenly he laughed. “I have made a most extraordinary mistake!” he said, and again laughed. “Oh, don't” she exclaimed. “Don't what?” “Laugh.” He came nearer to her--quite near, until his sleeve almost touched her bowed head. “I thought--at St. Mary Western--that you loved _me_.” She seemed to shrink away from him. “What made me think so, Hilda?” She raised her head, and her eyes flashed one momentary appeal for mercy--like the eyes of a whipped dog. “Tell me,” he said sternly. “It was,” she whispered, “because _I_ thought so myself.” “And when I was gone you found out that you had made a mistake?” “Yes; he was so kind, so _brave_, Christian--because he knew of my mistake.”