It was a heroic resolve—a resolve worthy a martyr; but having determined upon it, she arose and proceeded to put it into execution. She wrote for more than an hour steadily, never faltering over a single point—she laid her whole heart and life bare before him. “Dear, dear True,” she wrote in conclusion, “it makes me utterly wretched to think that I may have ruined your life—though unintentionally—I would rather that you had left me in that cheerless hospital—left me there to die; for I should have died, I know—I could not have lived and suffered on alone after having poured my whole soul through my blood into your veins. But even such a result would have been far better than that I should have brought life-long sorrow and regret to you and yours. Oh! answer me at once, that I may not be in suspense. If you pronounce sentence upon me, I will not murmur; I will go quietly away, and you shall never know anything more of me—you shall be free. But if—can such joy be in store for me?—if you love me as I have hoped, if you wish me to remain as your wife, I shall be happy, content, and will cheerfully and joyfully await your return, trusting you fully, and pay no attention to what others may say. Pray—pray send me but one word, ‘stay,’ by cable, to relieve the torturing suspense of your “SALOME.” When this lengthy epistle was finished, she sent it down by Nellie to the mail-box, so that the postman might take it on his first round, and then, with her mind greatly relieved, she threw herself again upon her bed, and was soon sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. But Evelyn Winthrop heard Nellie as she went down with Salome’s letter, and at once suspected that she had made a clean breast of everything to her husband, and appealed to him to protect her from their further persecution. “She will make a pretty mess for us if she has told him all that has happened since he went away, and he will never forgive us,” she muttered, with a frown. She arose, early as it was, and hastily throwing on her wrapper and thrusting her feet into a pair of felt slippers, stole softly down to the vestibule to inspect the letter-box. Yes, there was a bulky epistle addressed to her brother, as she had expected, while at that instant she heard the postman’s whistle, just across the street. Evelyn was intensely curious to know what was inside that letter; if she could but master its contents and send it on by the next mail—provided there was nothing objectionable in it—no one would be any the wiser and no harm would be done. She hastily slipped the missive from the box, thrust it into her bosom, and sped noiselessly back to her chamber, a few moments before the postman called to deliver the double mail, and, as was his custom, take what letters were ready for the post-office.