She had thought that the bitterness of death was passed when she believed herself thrust out of her husband’s home; when she believed he had become wearied of her—weaned from her by the sneers and jibes of his proud mother and sister; but that seemed as nothing now, compared to the scene she had just witnessed, and which seemed to have been branded upon her brain with a red-hot iron. Of course we know, although she could not, that Miss Rochester’s companion was not Dr. Winthrop. We know it must have been none other than Norman Winthrop, who had thus passionately declared himself to the reckless coquette, who had won his heart and lost her own while indulging in her favorite pastime of flirting. The young man had plainly shown his growing infatuation for her ever since his arrival in Paris, and had secretly avowed that he would win her, in spite of the Rochester-Hamilton contract and her evident determination to fulfil its conditions. The day when matters were thus brought to a crisis was a very warm one in September, and Miss Rochester, her mother having gone to Paris, sat alone in their pretty parlor, reading a new novel. Norman Winthrop, while passing through the hall, glanced in at the half-open door, saw the girl, and she looked so lovely and enticing in her dainty white costume, as she sat by a shaded window, that he stopped upon the threshold and begged permission to enter. “Mamma is away,” Miss Rochester said demurely, but looking up with alluring roguishness from the book in her hands. “It is not mamma whom I wish to see,” the young man answered, with an admiring look, as he boldly stepped within the room and approached her. She did not chide him as he sat down beside her, for she was lonely, and felt glad of anything that would pass away a dull hour, and they sat there chatting in low tones upon various topics for half an hour or more. Then, all at once, there fell over them a significant silence, which was finally abruptly interrupted by Mr. Winthrop, who recklessly broke down all barriers, and declared: “Sadie, I love you; you know it—must long have known it. Now tell me that you return my affection, and I shall be the happiest man upon the continent.” This outburst had occurred just before Salome reached the rocker in Mrs. Rochester’s chamber, and then she had caught his next words: “Sadie, you do not answer me,” etc. Salome believed that the man who was speaking was he whom she loved—whose wife she had once believed herself to be. The voice was the same, the form, face, and bearing were those of Dr. Winthrop, as she just caught a glimpse of him when she shot that one despairing look inside the room.