Her husband had been absent all day in Brooklyn, and would not return till late in the evening. "It is five years since I have spoken to a lady," said Morton, as he seated himself at the tea table. As he was not scrupulous to wear a mask before her, she quickly discovered the depressed condition of his mind; and on her charging him with being very much out of spirits, he admitted that he was so. "One would think," she observed, "that after the sufferings that you have passed, you would have come home in a different mood of mind." "And so I did," said Morton. "You seem in no great haste to see your friends and relations in Boston." "I have no near relations there." "But you have friends." "Yes; I have heard from them. I met an acquaintance yesterday." "You have heard, then----" And she bent her eyes upon his face, with a look searching but full of kindness, as if studying his thoughts. "Five years," she continued, "is a long time. Great changes may have taken place." "Changes _have_ taken place," said Morton. "You have lost none of your intimate friends, as far as I know them; but some have left Boston, and some are married." Morton did not look up; but an undefined expression passed across his face, like the shadow of a black cloud. When, a moment after, he raised his eyes, he saw those of Mrs. Ashland fixed upon him with the same earnest gaze as before. Such scrutiny from another would have been intolerable to him; but in her it gave him no uneasiness. A servant entering changed for a time the character of their conversation. A quarter of an hour afterwards they were again alone, and Morton was seated near the window, when his friend approached him, her features kindling with a look of ill-suppressed feeling, laid her hand on his shoulder, and said, "Vassall,"--she had always before addressed him as Mr. Morton,--"my heart bleeds for you--for you and for Edith Leslie." Morton looked up till he met her eyes. The surprise, the sudden consciousness that she was privy to his grief, the warm and heartfelt woman's sympathy that he read in every line of her face, were too much for his manhood, and he burst into tears. CHAPTER LIV. Elle n'est point parjure, elle n'est point legere; Son devoir m'a trahi, mon malheur, et son pere.--_Polyeucte_. Morton's evening with Mrs. Ashland, and the story which she told him, removed at least one pain from his breast. He learned that Edith Leslie was not in fault; and that, great as his misfortune might be, his idol was not turned to clay. His friend's narrative, however, was very defective. She could give results merely, not knowing, or suspecting, the hidden springs which produced them; and Morton was left to form his own conclusions. The following is a more explicit statement.