“I have read every word of it, Viola.” The color flushed her pale cheeks like a rose. “How dared you? You had no right!” “I took the right, and I am glad that I did, for now I have an inkling of what led to your elopement last night. Now, Viola, you must tell me the whole miserable story.” She felt as if she was withering under his searching gaze as he demanded the truth. Oh, how could she confess the keen humiliation she had risked so much to hide from the world? Why had that wretched letter ever come? But Judge Van Lew, in his wrath, was merciless to the willful daughter that until today he had fairly idolized. No criminal at the bar of justice was ever put through a more searching cross-examination by the lawyer than now fell to the portion of unhappy Viola. And before she fairly realized what she had done, she was goaded into confessing everything to her father and her aunt. Then she faltered: “You can not be angry with me now, papa, since you know all the bitter truth!” “Pooh, pooh! you made too much of a lovers’ quarrel, Viola. If you had only waited till this morning, how happy you would have been now!” The great gray eyes flashed proudly. “Do you think I could have forgiven him for last night--if he had sent a thousand letters?” “Certainly you would. The poor fellow acted upon impulse last night, and you must admit he had great provocation, too; but he made amends this morning. You have been terribly punished, Viola, for your willful coquetries.” “I must go now,” she answered, rising quickly. “Viola, you are never going back to your unloved husband. I must save you from the consequences of your mad mistake.” “Papa!” wildly. “I repeat it. You shall never go back to him again. You shall remain here under my charge. I shall speedily procure a divorce for you from this presuming fellow who took advantage of your trouble to betray you into such bonds. Not a word--you have owned you did not love him--leave the rest to me. Why, Edwina, the silly girl is fainting again! I will leave you to bring her to reason, for my word is law!” and he stalked out of the room. That evening, as he sat alone in his library, a card was brought him, and he said, curtly: “Show Mr. Maxwell in here.” Rolfe Maxwell entered, pale but composed, fully anticipating an ordeal of a crucial nature. “Ah, good-evening, Mr. Maxwell. You have called, I presume, to receive payment for the work you did for me?” sneeringly. “No, judge, not at present. I came to see my wife. She is here?” anxiously. “My daughter Viola is here,” curtly. “And of course you are aware that she was married to me last evening, sir? So I hope she will grant me a short interview,” Rolfe Maxwell humbly said in his great love. But the judge replied, mercilessly: “She declines to see you, sir, now or ever.” “But what have I done?”