nd walked
towards the door.

"There is another post which goes at seven, isn't there, Edgarson?" she
asked, "and the letters are delivered in London to-morrow morning just
the same?"

"Yes, ma'am, they arrive by the second post in London," said the man,
politely, and she passed on to her room.

Arrived there, excitement and triumph burned all over her. Here, without
a chance of detection, she could crush her rival and see her thoroughly
punished, and--who knows?--Hector might yet be caught in the rebound.

She would not hesitate a second. She rang for her maid.

"Bring me my little kettle and the spirit-lamp. I want to sip some
boiling water," she said. "I have indigestion. And then you need not
wait--I shall read until tea."

She was innocently settled on her sofa with a book when the maid
returned. She was a well-bred servant, and silently placed the kettle
and glass and left the room noiselessly. Morella sprang to her feet with
unusual agility. Her heavy form was slow of movement as a rule.

The door once locked, she returned to the sofa and began operations.

The kettle soon boiled, and the steam puffed out and achieved its
purpose.

The thin, hand-made paper of the envelope curled up, and with no
difficulty she opened the flap.

Hector's letter first and then Josiah's. All her pent-up, concentrated
rage was having its outlet, and almost joy was animating her being.

Hector's was a long letter; probably very loving, but that did not
concern her.

It would be most unladylike to read it, she decided--a sort of thing
only the housemaids would do. What she intended was to place them in the
wrong envelopes--Hector's to Josiah, and Josiah's to Hector. It was a
mistake any one might make themselves when they were writing, and
Theodora, when it should be discovered, could only blame her own
supposed carelessness. Even if the letter was an innocent one, which was
not at all likely. Oh, dear, no! She knew the world, however little
girls were supposed to understand. She had kept her eyes open, thank
goodness; and it would certainly not be an epistle a husband would care
to read--a great thing of pages and pages like that. But even if it were
innocent, it was bound to cause some trouble and annoyance; and the
thought of that was honey and balm to her.

She slipped them into the covers she had destined for them and pressed
down the damp gum. So all was as it had been to outward appearance, and
she felt perfectly