She began to realize at once that she was _de trop_, and remarking that it was dinner time, and they must both be hungry, she slipped from the room and Dr. Winthrop was left alone again with his wife. He was not sorry. He saw that something was very wrong with Salome—there were many things to be explained and talked over, and he was determined that every barrier should at once be broken down, and perfect confidence in each other restored. He loved her with his whole soul, and he believed that she had once loved him as well; but he knew that she had been deeply wounded and injured, while his mother and sister had been her guests in New York, and that they were, to some extent, responsible for the misunderstanding that had driven her from his home. Just the truth of it he had never been able to learn; but now he meant to have the whole story—to go to the bottom of all secrets, even at the sacrifice of a little strength on her part, if need be, for he believed she would be the better for it in the end. A strange silence and constraint seemed to fall over Salome after Harriet left the room. She shrank into a corner of the sofa, without removing any of her things, and sat there with clasped hands and averted face before her husband. “Salome, dear, are you not going to remove your bonnet and wrap?” Dr. Winthrop asked, in a kindly tone. She started violently, and nervously tried to untie the strings of her bonnet; but she only pulled them into a harder knot, which she found it impossible to loosen. Her husband went to her side and gently disentangled them for her, removing the ugly head covering and casting it upon the floor. Then he unfastened her wrap, and threw it behind her. Still she had not once lifted her eyes to his face; she was trembling nervously too, and her cheeks were crimson, her bosom heaving with suppressed emotion. “Salome!” The darkly fringed lids quivered over the beautiful eyes, but she did not look up or reply. “Salome!” her husband repeated more tenderly, more gravely too, than before. There was something in his tone half authoritative, half appealing, which she could not resist, and she lifted her glance to his. “My wife, have you ceased to love me?” There was a moment of silence after Dr. Winthrop put that grave earnest question to his wife. Then all Salome’s forced composure forsook her, and throwing out her hands in a wild passionate gesture, she cried: “No—no—no!” and burst into a perfect tempest of tears. Had she ceased to love him? How could he have such a thought when she had braved and sacrificed so much for his sake? Dr. Winthrop gathered those trembling hands tenderly into his, his face lighting with joy, and then he drew her close to his breast once more. But he said nothing more just then—he thought it better to allow her to weep all she would and relieve her overburdened heart before questioning her any further.