ngo shared your hard opinion of me, on that occasion," he
proceeded; "and expressed it in infinitely stronger terms. She betrayed
herself to _you_ in the rectory garden. She betrayed herself to _me,_
after you had left us together in the sitting-room. Her hasty temper
again, beyond all doubt! I quite agree with you. What she said to me in
your absence, she would never have said if she had been mistress of
herself."

I began to feel a little startled. "How is it that you now tell me of
this for the first time?" I said. "Were you afraid of distressing me?"

"I was afraid of losing you," he answered.

Hitherto, I had kept my arm in his. I drew it out now. If his reply meant
anything, it meant that he had once thought me capable of breaking faith
with him. He saw that I was hurt.

"Remember," he said, "that I had unhappily offended you that day, and
that you have not heard yet what Madame Pratolungo had the audacity to
say to me under those circumstances."

"What did she say to you?"

"This:--'It would have been a happier prospect for Lucilla, if she had
been going to marry your brother, instead of marrying you.' I repeat
literally: those were the words."

I could no more believe it of her than I could have believed it of
myself.

"Are you really sure?" I asked him. "_Can_ she have said anything so
cruel to you as that?"

Instead of answering me, he took his pocket-book from the breast-pocket
of his coat--searched in it--and produced a morsel of folded and crumpled
paper. He opened the paper, and showed me some writing inside.

"Is that my writing?" he asked.

It was his writing. I had seen enough of his letters, since the recovery
of my sight, to feel sure of that.

"Read it!" he said; "and judge for yourself."

[Note.--You have made your acquaintance with this letter already, in my
thirty-second chapter. I had said those foolish words to Oscar (as you
will find in my record of the time), under the influence of a natural
indignation, which any other woman with a spark of spirit in her would
have felt in my place. Instead of personally remonstrating with me, Oscar
had (as usual) gone home, and written me a letter of expostulation.
Having, on my side, had time to cool--and feeling the absurdity of our
exchanging letters when we were within a few minutes' walk of each
other--I had gone straight to Browndown, on receiving the letter: first
crumpling it up, and (as I supposed) throwing it into the fire. After
p