A keen sense of honour forbade her to break the seal. The temptation to do so was the strongest she had ever experienced in her life. She sat pondering over these things, heedless of the long hours that slipped by, until the first rays of the summer sun had converted into diamonds all the dewdrops on the heath. It was too late or rather too early then to go to bed, so changing her afternoon muslin for a calico working dress, she roused the prentice girl to go with her to the marshes and fetch home the cows. CHAPTER IX. DOROTHY MAKES A "CONFIDANT" OF MR. FITZMORRIS. Dorothy was undecided in what manner to break the news of Gilbert's marriage to his mother, to whom she well knew the intelligence would be everything but welcome. Fortunately she was spared what she foolishly considered a humiliating task. The walking post from the village beyond Hadstone in the shape of a very spare wrinkled old woman, whom all the boys in the neighbourhood considered a witch, left a letter at the door on her way to Storby, for Mrs. Rushmere. "This is from Gilbert," said Dorothy, as she examined the seal and superscription. "But no, the hand is not his. Some one must have written it for him, (and she remembered the lost arm), his wife perhaps." The writing was that of a woman, and the letter was neatly folded and sealed. Gilbert's letters were short and ill-shaped, and closed with a great blotch of discoloured wax pressed down with a regimental button. The epistle was evidently none of his. She had left Mrs. Rushmere in the easy chair, talking with her husband about Gilbert's misfortune. They were still pursuing the same theme, when she reentered the room. "A letter for you, dear mother, with the London post-mark. One shilling postage. The old woman is waiting for it at the door." Mrs. Rushmere gave her the money, bidding her quickly return, and read the letter. It was, as Dorothy suspected, from Gilbert's wife. "Dear Madam, "I write at the desire of my husband, your son, Lieutenant Rushmere." "Hold!" cried the farmer. "Gilbert married. I'll not believe a word on't. He'd never get married without telling us about it, or giving us a jollification at the wedding. Tut, tut, girl, 'tis all a hoax." "Go on with the letter, Dorothy, and let us hear what the woman says for hersel'," said Mrs. Rushmere. "It may be true after all." "I think you will find it so," returned Dorothy, who had been glancing over the first page.