Dr. Winthrop could not speak for a few moments. He folded her in a close embrace, and marvelled at the beautiful spirit that could be so gentle and forgiving toward those whose only object had been to crush her. For himself, he felt that he never could forgive his mother and sister for their treacherous scheming, their heartlessness and ill-will. He could see that they had been determined to separate them from the first, and he wondered how they would feel when they should learn the truth. “Did madam—your mother write you about my meeting a strange man one day?” Salome questioned, breaking in upon these reflections. Madam’s threat had suddenly recurred to her, and she wished to learn just how much her husband had been told. “Yes, dear, but I wrote her in reply that I trusted my wife implicitly. Evelyn, she said, had been an eye-witness of the meeting, and they were both evidently very curious. But I felt sure that there had been nothing wrong in it—that if anything had occurred which I ought to know, you would yourself explain it to me upon my return,” Dr. Winthrop replied. “Thank you, dear True, for your confidence in me,” Salome said, as she lifted her lips and touched his in a grateful caress—one which her husband doubly appreciated, since it was the first one she had voluntarily given him. “There was nothing suspicious or wrong in the meeting, on my part, although it may have seemed so to her,” she continued. “The man was the same one whom I met in London; as I told you, he had been a servant in our family—he went abroad with us to wait upon my father, attend to our baggage, and make himself generally useful. He had always pretended to be very fond of me, and though this may have been all very well when I was a child, it became very annoying as I grew older. When I was about nineteen, he one day boldly made love to me. I went to my father and told him at once of the insult, and he discharged the man on the spot. He was very angry, and vowed that he would be avenged upon us. He did not leave the country, but continued to follow us about from place to place. Although this was not pleasant, we did not fear him, or imagine that he would dare do us any injury. He must have known about my father’s death, and of my subsequent flight—he even traced me to London, though what possible good he could have expected to gain by so doing I cannot understand. I do not think he could have known of my sailing for America, for I never saw him again until we met in New York that day. I was greatly annoyed and frightened, for it seemed to me then that he was bent upon doing me some injury, and I cannot tell you how I longed for you, True, to protect me from him and his further insults. His name was William Brown, and he was a very smart, capable man in certain ways, but I sincerely hope I shall never see him again.”