“No matter,” laughed Dick. “There is a hole in this millstone. Mr. Buckstone, you acknowledge that this lady is your wife,” he added, nodding to Miss Thompson. “I do; and if she can forgive me, I will endeavor to atone for the wrong I have done.” “Freely, Eliot,” said she, giving him her hand. “If you are truly sorry, and mean to shun your evil ways, I cannot reproach you.” “I have hated this business from the beginning; but after I had been paid for it, I could not honorably refuse to complete the contract.” “When were you married to Miss Thompson?” asked Dick. “Seven years ago, at Eastport.” Buckstone told his story. On a visit to Eastport, while he was a student of art, he had fallen in love with Ellen Thompson, whose father was a sea captain. They were married, and went to New York. They lived happily for a year, when Buckstone’s dissolute habits destroyed their peace. He was a periodical drunkard. For three, six, or even twelve months he entirely abstained from the cup, and then his period of dissipation lasted from four to twelve weeks. In one of these seasons he abandoned his wife, and she was left destitute, as Mary had been. She wrote to her father, and the indignant parent hastened to her assistance. He conveyed her to his home. She was an only child, and her mother was dead. Captain Thompson resolved that she should never return to her husband; but the stricken wife refused to be comforted. Her hopes had been wrecked. Captain Thompson was appointed to the command of a brig for a voyage to the West Indies and back. He could not leave Ellen alone in her misery, and he thought the sea voyage would benefit her health, and help her to forget her grief. She went with him. Before her departure she wrote a letter to Buckstone, whom she still loved in spite of his bad conduct, inviting him to send his reply to Gonaives. This was the last he knew of her, until he met her in the drawing-room at Pine Hill. Three months after the receipt of her letter, Buckstone saw in the newspapers an account of the wreck of Captain Thompson’s vessel, and the loss of all on board, except the negro cook. He had written to her, as requested, but now his wife was dead. He was sober then, and he grieved for the lost one; and he was sincere, though his volatile nature could not long cling to a sorrow.