The woman crouched in her chair, afraid to speak. She watched him with terrified eyes as he staggered about beating the air, till at last his helplessness came home to him, and he fell into a chair with his face upon his clenched hands.
His wife knelt beside him, and tried to force his hands away.
"Tell me what this is?" he said, and thrust her from him.
"Hugh is dead," she said; "be pitiful."
"I thought you loved me best," he answered; "you swore it."
The woman stammered through her confession.
"I did," she sobbed; "I loved you best when I married you. Sometimes when you were so fierce and wilful, I thought of Hugh, who was always gentle to me; but I never loved him till—till in Paris. He followed us everywhere, so I was always thinking of him. So sure was I of seeing him everywhere, that if he stayed away I kept wondering why till I saw him again. I was angry with him and myself, but could not control my thoughts. I dared not tell you, for you hated him, and
