“Go in to see your mother, and when you have kissed and embraced her give her this note, and wait until she reads it. Then bring me any message that she may send.” Wynnette took the missive, wondering a little why her father should send it, and left the room to deliver it. But Mr. Force had acted with prudent foresight. He feared that, in his wife’s nervous and enfeebled condition, the sudden sight of him in her room while she was yet in doubt about his feelings toward her, might have a disastrous effect upon her health. Therefore he had sent the short, loving message as a preparation for his visit. He dressed himself in a great hurry, and waited for the return of Wynnette. She came while he was drawing on his coat. “Mamma wants you to come at once and see her alone. She has sent out the nurse.” “How did you find her, Wynnette?” “Oh, she is better. All right, I should think, except that she is very weak and as white as chalk. She cried when she read your note, papa. Why did she cry, papa? What was in your note?” “She cried from nervousness, my dear. There was nothing in my note to distress her. I expressed the sympathy I felt, and asked her if she was able to see me,” replied the squire, truthfully, as far as the words went, yet evasively. “Oh!” said Wynnette, and she was perfectly satisfied. “I am going to see her now,” said the squire, as he passed out of his own little room and went to his wife’s chamber. He opened the door and passed in. The window shutters were open, but the white shades were down and the lace curtains drawn, so that the chamber was filled with a soft, dim, white light, that showed the low French bed and the fair form upon it. As Mr. Force approached his wife, she put up her hands and covered her face. “Elfrida,” he said, in low and tender tones. “Oh, how can I look you in the face?” she murmured. “How can I kiss you, dear, unless you take away your hands?” he said, gently removing them and pressing his lips to hers. “Oh, Abel! if I could leave my bed—I should be at your feet! It is on my knees that I should receive your forgiveness,” she moaned. “My dearest,” he whispered, kissing her again—“my dearest, I do not offer you forgiveness, for you have done me no wrong.” “Oh, yes! oh, yes! I had a shameful secret, and I kept it from you, and married you! My love——No, no! my selfish feeling was not worthy of the name of love, yet what else can I call it? Whatever it was, it blinded me to honor and duty and drew me on to marry you, with that shameful secret in my heart,” she moaned. “Dear wife, you are very morbid. Your secret was not a shameful one, and it was never kept from me,” he answered, caressingly. “What, Abel! What are you telling me?” she inquired, starting up in bed. “Lie down again. Calm yourself and keep very quiet, Elfrida. I have much to tell you, and I will tell you all. Confession for confession, my dear.”