tted to
himself, which had been the root of all the mischief.

Edward had been his hero, too, in his younger days, and it was this
common worship of a nobler and more gifted nature which had brought him
and Josephine together. Why had he not let it remain the base of their
intercourse? Their marriage would then have been a happy one, and his
own life would have been filled with larger thoughts and more generous
feelings.

While Pastor Tuft was meditating, his wife was acting. She too, had been
refused admittance to her brother's house. So she was writing to him.
For whatever wrong they might have done, she said, they wished to make
amends. They had been intolerant, she allowed, and they were sorry for
it. But surely they were worthy to be accused? Would he not, then, tell
them plainly what they had done to make him so angry?

Some days afterwards, Josephine received a large envelope addressed to
her by her brother. But she was surprised, on opening it, to find that
it was full of papers in two strange handwritings. They were letters to
Kallem, from Ragni and Karl Meek. Josephine trembled as she looked at
them. She began by chance with Meek's letters. Ragni innocent? Good God!
was she innocent? Yes! Now she understood why Edward had driven away on
the day of the funeral with only Karl Meek by his side; but she could
not understand how he had survived it.

The servant knocked at her bedroom door, saying that supper was ready.

"No, no!" she managed to exclaim, as she writhed in shame and sorrow.
She must go at once to her brother if she had to go to him on her knees.
But no! Here were Ragni's letters. She felt as if her brother were
standing over her, and forcing her to read them. Some of them were early
love-letters. There had been no misconduct. Her chivalrous brother and
the sweet, gentle woman whom he had rescued from a horrible fate had
lived apart from one another in America until the day of their marriage.

Josephine slipped from the chair down upon her knees, weeping and
sobbing. "Forgive me! Forgive me!" she whispered, pressing Ragni's
letters in her hands.

Then she forced herself to silence, so that no one might discover her
crouching there in the shame of her crime. She had murdered her
brother's wife--not by words, but by her silence! Yes, she was a
murderess! Well, let Edward deal with her as he thought fit!

She ran wildly out of the house into the dark, rainy street, past her
husband's church, pas