“Oh! but if the divorce has been granted—if she should already have received the decree!” Salome cried breathlessly, but looking up with a gleam of hope on her white face. “Even then it would be a very easy matter for me to make you my wife again. My darling, tell me, if news should come to-day that the separation had been granted, do you still love me well enough to give yourself to me a second time?” Could she believe her ears? Could he even wish such a thing after all her distrust? The face bending so eagerly toward her was full of love and tenderness and earnest appeal, she could no longer doubt him. She threw herself upon his breast, tears raining from her eyes. “O True, it is not a question of my love for you,” she breathed. “Then of whose, dear? Certainly not of mine,” he responded as he tenderly smoothed the dishevelled tresses, “for the world has been a wretched blank to me without you, during these last two years—while knowing that you live, the future would be no less miserable, if I had to spend it apart from you. I shall never give you up, Salome. Tell me that you believe me—that there is no longer any question in your heart of my love for you.” She could not fail to see that he spoke only truth, and yet how could she reconcile that scene in Mrs. Rochester’s parlor at the chateau, with his present protestations? She lifted her eyes and searched his face. “There is some doubt yet, love. Tell me what it is. There must be perfect confidence between us. Let us effectually demolish every barrier once for all,” he said with deep tenderness. “Then you do not love——” she began, then stopped, for it seemed so disloyal to doubt him. “Whom?” he questioned gravely. “Sarah Rochester.” “Assuredly not.” “But—but——” “Tell me all, Salome,” he commanded, seeing there was something still troubling her. “But I heard you tell her so over and over again. I saw her clasped in your arms—lying upon your breast, your lips raining kisses upon hers; and O True! True! that was what broke my heart! I could never have signed that letter but for that,” Salome panted, and her tale was all told at last. But Dr. Winthrop regarded her in bewildered astonishment, and was almost tempted to believe that a form of madness had seized her, for her words were utterly incomprehensible, and yet her earnestness convinced him that she believed what she had stated. “What can you mean? When did you imagine that you saw and heard all this?” he inquired. “When I was ill at the chateau.” “When you were ill at the chateau! I do not understand you,” he said more deeply puzzled, for everything seemed to be growing more complicated, though a sudden shock went through him as she spoke of having been ill at the villa.