ing.

'Dead?'

Mrs. Abbott moved, and he could see her face better. She must have wept
for hours.

'He has been taking morphia--he couldn't sleep well--and then his
neuralgia. The girl found him this morning, at seven o'clock--there.'

She pointed to the couch.

'You mean that he had taken an overdose--by accident----'

'It _must_ have been so. He had to work late--and then he must have
lain down to sleep.'

'Why here?'

'A flood of anguish whelmed her. She uttered a long moan, all the more
terrible for its subdual to a sound that could not pass beyond the
room. Her struggle for self-command made her suffering only the more
impressive, the more grievous to behold.'

'Mr. Rolfe, I sent for you because you are his old friend. I meant to
tell you all the truth, as I know it. I _can't_ tell it before
strangers--in public! I _can't_ let them know--the shame--the shame!'

Harvey's sympathy gave way to astonishment and strange surmise.
Hurriedly he besought her not to reveal anything in her present
distress; to wait till she could reflect calmly, see things in truer
proportion. His embarrassment was heightened by an inability to
identify this woman with the Mrs. Abbott he had known; the change in
her self-presentment seemed as great and sudden as that in her
circumstances. Face and voice, though scarce recognisable, had changed
less than the soul of her--as Harvey imaged it. This entreaty she
replied to with a steadiness, a resolve, which left him no choice but
to listen.

'I cannot, dare not, think that he did this knowingly. No! He was too
brave for that. He would never have left me in that way--to my despair.
But it was my fault that made him angry--no, not angry; he was never
that with me, or never showed it. But I had behaved with such utter
selfishness----'

Her misery refused to word itself. She sank down upon a chair and
sobbed and moaned.

'Your grief exaggerates every little fault,' said Harvey.

'No--you must hear it all--then perhaps I can hide my shame from
strangers. What use would it be if they knew? It alters nothing--it's
only in my own heart. I have no right to pain you like this. I will
tell you quietly. You know that he went to Waterbury, on business. Did
he tell you?--it was to buy a share in a local newspaper. I, in my
blindness and selfishness, disliked that. I wanted to live here; the
thought of going to live in the country seemed unbearable. That Edgar
was overworked and ill, seemed