"and your absurd way of taking a
joke only encourages me! Suppose you could transform this sour old wife
of yours, who has insulted me, into the sweetest young creature that
ever lived, by only holding up your finger--wouldn't you do it?"

This passed the limits of his endurance. "I have no wish," he said, "to
forget the consideration which is due to a woman. You leave me but one
alternative." He rose to go out of the room.

She ran to the door as he spoke, and placed herself in the way of his
going out.

He signed to her to let him pass.

She suddenly threw her arms round his neck, kissed him passionately, and
whispered, with her lips at his ear: "Oh, Ernest, forgive me! Could I
have asked you to marry me for my money if I had not taken refuge in a
disguise?"

XI.

WHEN he had sufficiently recovered to think, he put her back from him.
"Is there an end of the deception now?" he asked, sternly. "Am I to
trust you in your new character?"

"You are not to be harder on me than I deserve," she answered, gently.
"Did you ever hear of an actress named Miss Max?"

He began to understand her. "Forgive me if I spoke harshly," he said.
"You have put me to a severe trial."

She burst into tears. "Love," she murmured, "is my only excuse."

From that moment she had won her pardon. He took her hand, and made her
sit by him.

"Yes," he said, "I have heard of Miss Max and of her wonderful powers of
personation--and I have always regretted not having seen her while she
was on the stage."

"Did you hear anything more of her, Ernest?"

"Yes, I heard that she was a pattern of modesty and good conduct, and
that she gave up her profession, at the height of her success, to marry
an old man."

"Will you come with me to my room?" she asked. "I have something there
which I wish to show you."

It was the copy of her husband's will.

"Read the lines, Ernest, which begin at the top of the page. Let my dead
husband speak for me."

The lines ran thus:

"My motive in marrying Miss Max must be stated in this place, in justice
to her--and, I will venture to add, in justice to myself. I felt the
sincerest sympathy for her position. She was without father, mother,
or friends; one of the poor forsaken children, whom the mercy of the
Foundling Hospital provides with a home. Her after life on the stage
was the life of a virtuous woman: persecuted by profligates; insulted
by some of the baser creatures associated with her, to whom sh