"You have come to tell me something," she said, at length, in a low, almost monotonous voice. "And it is something about Richard. It is something--something wretched." A slight flush mounted to his cheek,--a flush of shame. "Yes," he answered, "it is something wretched." She began to shake like a leaf, but it was not from fear. "Then do not be afraid," she said; "there is no need! Richard--has not spared me!" It was the first time through all she had borne and hidden, through all the years holding, for her, suffering and bitterness and disenchantment which had blighted all her youth,--it was the first time she had permitted her husband's name to escape her lips when she could not compel herself to utter it gently, and that, at last, he himself had forced such speech from her was the bitterest indignity of all. And if she felt this, the professor felt it keenly, too. He had marked her silence and self-control at many a time when he had felt that the fire that burned in her must make her speak; but she had never spoken, and the dignity of her reserve had touched him often. "What is it that Richard has done now, papa?" she said. He put a tremulous hand into his pocket, and drew forth a letter. "Richard," he said,--"Richard has gone abroad." She had felt that she was to receive some blow, but she had scarcely been prepared for this. She repeated his words in bewilderment. "Richard has gone abroad!" The professor put his hand on her shoulder. "Sit down, my dear," he said. "You must sit down." There was a chair near her; it stood by the table on which the professor had been wont to take his cup of tea; she turned and sat down in this chair, and resting her elbows on the table, dropped her forehead upon her hands. The professor drew near to her side; his gentle, refined old face flushed and paled alternately; his hands were tremulous; he spoke in a low, agitated voice. "My dear," he said, "I find it very hard to tell you all--all I have discovered. It is very bitter to stand here upon your husband's hearth, and tell you--my child and his wife--that the shadow of dishonor and disgrace rests upon him. He has not been truthful; we have--been deceived." She did not utter a word. "For some time I have been anxious," he went on; "but I blame myself that I was not anxious sooner. I am not a business man; I have not been practical in my methods of dealing with him; the fault was in a great measure mine. His nature was not a strong one,--it was almost impossible for him to resist temptation; I knew that, and should have remembered it. I have been very blind. I did not realize what was going on before my eyes. I thought his interest in the Westoria scheme was only one of his many whims. I was greatly to blame." "No," said Bertha; "it was not you who were to blame. I was more blind than you--I knew him better than--than any one else."