"Do you see this, darling?" and, throwing the robe of the white monk aside, he disclosed his "flashy" scarf, white vest and gold chain. "Do you see this, pet?" and from beneath his white vest he drew forth a package of letters.--"_Her_ letters to her dear Eugene! How she loves him--how she pities him, because he is not married to a _sympathetic_ soul,--how she counts the hours that must elapse before he comes! It is all written here, darling!" Joanna took the package and passed it absently from one hand to the other. "Yes, yes, I read them yesterday! It is true, beyond hope of doubt. He loves her!--he loves her!" "And you,"--Beverly arose and seated himself by her side, winding his arm about her waist. "And you, like a brave, noble woman, whose dearest affections have been trampled upon,"--he wound his left hand amid the rich masses of her golden hair,--"you, like a brave, proud heart, whose very May of life has been blighted by a husband's treachery,--have _avenged_ yourself upon him!" He pressed his kiss upon her lips. But the warmth of passion had passed away. Her lips were cold. She shrunk from his embrace. The vail had fallen from her eyes; the delusion, composed of a mad passion and a mad desire for revenge, had left her, and she knew herself to be no longer the stainless wife and holy mother--but that thing for which on earth there is no forgiveness--an adulteress! "No, Beverly, no. It will not avail. His fault was no excuse for my crime. For his fault affects me only--wrongs me alone--but mine--," there was a choking sensation in her throat--she buried her face in her hands--"Oh God! oh God! my child!" Beverly took a bottle of champagne which stood upon the table, drew the cork, and filled two brimming glasses. "You are nervous, my darling," he said, "take this. Let us pledge each other--for the past, forgetfulness--for the future, hope and love." He stood erect beneath the lamp--his tall form, clad in the robe of the white monk, relieved by the very gloom of the luxurious chamber; he pressed the glass to his lips, and over its rim surveyed the white couch, which looked dim and shadowy in its distant recess,--he murmured, "Eugene, your magnificent wife is mine!" And then drained the glass without moving it from his lips. She took the glass and drank; but the same wine which an hour ago had fired her blood, and completed the delusion of her senses, now only added to her remorse and shame. "My father,--so proud of his name, so proud of the honor of his son, the purity of his daughter, how shall I ever meet his eye? how can I ever look him in the face again?"