"You need not. Nothing that happens here goes beyond these four walls.
Everybody tells me everything."

Elizabeth might well say this. There was that about her which made
people fearless and free in their confidence; it did not seem like
talking to a mortal woman, mixed up continually in the affairs of life,
but to one removed to a different sphere, where there was no chance of
betrayal.

Her room was a safe confessional, and she was a sort of general
conscience in the house.

"Everybody tells you everything," repeated Agatha. "Does my husband?"

"Not yet; at least not in words."

"Then I will not. Only let me come here, and"--

She covered her face, and for a few moments wept fully and freely, as
one weep's before one's own heart and before God. Then she dried her
eyes, and the storm was over.

Elizabeth only said, "Poor child--poor child. Wait!" But the one word
struck like a sun-ray through darkness. No one ever "waited" but had
some hopeful ending to wait for.

"Now," said Agatha, overcoming her weakness--"now let us talk. What have
you been doing all day?"

"Little else than read this, and think over it. You know Frederick's
hand, I see? He does not usually write such long letters, even to me.
All is not right with him, I fear."

"Indeed!"--and Agatha met unsuspiciously the keen look of Elizabeth.
"Yet he is well and in the midst of gaieties; Mr. Trenchard said so
yesterday. They met in Paris."

"Did they?" Elizabeth lay musing for a good while; then suddenly said,
observing her young sister, "Agatha, you are listening? There's some one
at the door?"

It was Nathanael. Any one might have known that by the quick flush
that swept over his wife's features. But when this passed she was again
composed--not at all like the young creature who had wept by Elizabeth's
couch. She merely acknowledged her husband's presence, and leaving her
place vacant for him, took up a book.

He said, "I did not know my wife was here. Were you and she talking?
Shall I leave you?"

Elizabeth smiled. "Then you must take your wife also, for I will not be
the sundering of married people. But nonsense! Sit down both of you. We
were speaking about Frederick. Has he written to you?"

"No."

"In this letter"--Nathanael's eyes fell on it and froze there--"he
gives me no address. Agatha says he is living in Paris. Do you remember
where?"

"I do not.",

"Perhaps your wife does."

Agatha had a useful memory for such thing