“And she told you nothing but the truth, Miriam, for the seal was unbroken when she gave me the package to return to you. My wife has never read a single line that is written there. No one knows anything of its contents save you and me,” Sir William replied, sternly, and then told her how he had happened to discover the nature of its contents, after which he felt justified in reading enough more to confirm the suspicions that one line had aroused. “You have proved yourself a very unwomanly woman, Miriam,” said her brother, with cold gravity. “Your nature, aside from the affection which you have for your children, is wholly selfish; it has become warped—degraded. You have not only hardened yourself against all honor and sisterly affection, but you have committed the most reprehensible crimes to further your miserable schemes. “The wrong you did my young wife years ago, the insults you offered her, the falsehood and even theft of which you were guilty in sending that hundred pounds to her, the intercepting of our letters, are things that I can never overlook.” “Do you dare to accuse me of theft?” interrupted Lady Linton, bridling. “You gave me that hundred pounds for charitable purposes.” “I gave you that hundred pounds to use for the poor girl who was injured in that railway accident, and you stole it to add insult to injury. You mocked and scorned a woman who was your superior in every way—in whose veins there was as good blood as in your own, notwithstanding your boasted preëminence, and I grow cold with shame and horror every time I think of that paltry sum that you sent her, when I had brought back thousands of her money with me to England. Mr. Alexander left a small fortune to his daughter and I have had it in my possession ever since.” Lady Linton looked up aghast at this information. It was the first she had ever heard of that matter. “You begin to appreciate something of what I have suffered,” he continued, as he noticed the look, “but you can never begin to realize the misery which you brought upon two loving hearts so long separated; and to think that for more than eighteen years I was a father and never once looked upon the face of my child. Miriam, I can never overlook it. You have forfeited all respect from me, all claim upon me, and Heathdale can no longer be your home—you must go elsewhere to live, for I will not subject my wife to the constant companionship of one who has done her such irreparable wrong.” “William Heath, will you turn me out from my home, where I was born?” cried the miserable woman, almost fiercely.