absence had your love grown so faint and lifeless? And if I could have hurried back, I should not have done so; no word of mine should ever seek to determine your wandering allegiance. Only I could not yet suppose such a thing possible—you had seemed so honest, so true; your love-words were so freshly in my ears. But sometimes I remembered that so others had sounded, spoken to other men by women who had betrayed them."
"And did you never receive a letter from me?" I ask, slowly, remembering the dainty knot of flowers that I gathered so carefully and kissed so tenderly.
"I received one," he says, "later. Meanwhile, I was detained by business beyond the time that I had fixed to return to Silverbridge; and on the 21st a letter and a newspaper were brought to me. The former was in your handwriting, and your seal, with your name 'Nell' on it, looked me in the face so naturally and sweetly, that my doubts forsook me on the spot, and I kissed it like a fool, child. I opened the letter, and out fell a tiny withered nosegay of flowers, that seemed to have been plucked many days and had little scent; and for your sweet sake, I kissed them too, Nell, many times. Then I read your first love-letter. I took it in my hand so carefully, remembering that it had touched yours, and started as I read the first words—'Dear Mr. Vasher.' With all your wilful ways, I could not understand that. Well, it was a simple epistle enough. It was only to say that, after mature consideration, you had come to the conclusion that you would be happier as George Tempest's wife than as mine, and that you had already married him, and were going abroad immediately with him and his father. You sent a newspaper to corroborate your statement; you asked forgiveness from me for any disappointment you might cause me; and you signed yourself 'Helen Tempest.'"
"Have you it here?" I ask; and he takes it out of his pocket-book and hands it to me, and I sit looking at it much as a man
