“I followed her into the room, and at a glance perceived that we had come too late--the mischief had been done. That Harry was absolutely crazy for the time being was as plain as could be. Viola was leaning against the bed-post, pale and trembling, while Harry was passing across the room like an angry tiger in its cage. Lottie was by Viola’s side in an instant. “‘What is it?’ she inquired, as she took hold of her arm. ‘Tell me what has happened, I beseech you!’ “‘Your gallant brother there I think could tell you better than I could,’ replied Viola, as she drew herself up to her full height. She looked like a queen who had received an insult from one of her subjects. Such a look of scorn as she cast upon Harry as she spoke I never had seen flash from a woman’s eyes before. Her cheeks were red with anger, and her frame seemed to grow taller. ‘Yes, Lottie, your gallant brother can enlighten you as to what has happened.’ Then addressing herself to Harry, she said: ‘Why, Mr. Wallingford, didn’t you tell your sister how you sat quietly in your chair and heard those two penitentiary birds say that I was the mistress of a blackleg gambler, and didn’t kill them? You saved my life when I was a child, and I thought you were a brave hero. Every story I read where a hero was described I coupled your name with, and my childish mind pictured you as greater and braver than all of them. I loved you for your courage; I thought of you by day--I dreamed about you at night. My love grew as I grew, until my poor heart was full to overflowing. The followers in Mohammed never had stronger faith in him than I had in you. Your image floated before my young mind as my beau ideal of all that was brave, noble, generous and kind. I studied by day and by night, in order to make myself worthy of such a hero. My love grew into worship, and if every man, woman and child on earth had told me you were not a brave, generous hero, I would not have believed it. I wore your image next to my heart, and no heathen ever worshiped his idol with half the devotion that I worshiped you. My love was my life--it was my happiness--it was my religion--it was my all! You told me you loved me--you took me to your heart and whispered sweet words of love into my ear--you almost killed me with joy. Then you cast me off and declared that you were joking, and that you never could think of marrying me. I was crazed with grief; and as soon as I got so I could bear the awful affliction, you came and renewed the protestations of love. You offered excuses for your former conduct. I believed you. You swore in the most solemn language that you always had loved me. I credited it, and you asked me to be your wife. I yielded because I loved--nay, the word love is too weak a term to be used--I worshiped you--I adored you. I thought my love was returned--I thought you were perfection itself. In view of all these things, how could you sit and hear my name blackened by a pair