She went back to the commencement of her acquaintance with Sir William, although she did not call him by name—she was not quite ready to reveal that yet—and related all the story of his visit to that settlement among the mountains of Nevada. She told how he had won her; how kind he had been to her invalid father, and how they had been married while he was so ill; how, after his death, her husband had taken her to many places of interest in order to win her mind from her grief, and had made himself so necessary and was so devoted to her that she had grown to idolize him and to believe him the truest and noblest man on earth. She told of his sudden recall to England, while she was obliged to remain behind; of the sudden cessation of letters; of the arrival at the hotel, where she was boarding, of two English ladies, whom she did not name, who were the means finally of her discovering her husband’s faithlessness, his previous engagement to one of his own countrywomen, and his subsequent marriage with her, in defiance of those bonds that he had assumed in connection with her. She related how she had at once returned to the West, where she had collected incontestable proofs of her marriage, notwithstanding that she had no certificate; how she had been enabled to turn her artistic talents to account and provide for her own necessities. She spoke of the divorce that she had obtained, and her reasons for wishing to secure it, scorning to remain bound to a man who had deserted her, and yet desirous of saving another pure woman from dishonor. Then she told something of her father’s history and fortunes, of her uncle’s return, his repentance and restitution, and the provision which he had made for her and which had placed her forever beyond the fear of want or the need of toil, even though she might never recover the fortune that her father had left her, or succeed in establishing Virgie’s claim to her inheritance. It was a sad, heart-breaking story, and told with thrilling power and earnestness by the long-tried woman, who almost seemed to be enduring again the sufferings of her early life; and when at length it was concluded, she was nearly exhausted by the effort it had cost her. Virgie had long since crept to her mother’s side, and was now in tears, with her arms twined about her and her head resting on her bosom; while Rupert sat near with averted eyes and looking grave and deeply distressed. “Oh, mamma, why have you not told me this before?” Virgie at length asked, trying to control her sobs. “Because, my darling, I could not bear to sadden your young life.” “But I could have sympathized with you, and then I need not have pained you by asking so many distressing questions.”