could be punished in a court of justice. To Lord
Chetwynde she was, after all, the woman who had saved his life with
what still seemed to him like matchless devotion. He knew well, what
Zillah never knew, how passionately Hilda loved him. To Obed Chute,
finally, she was a _woman_, and now undeniably a woman in distress.
That was enough. "Let the poor thing go; I half wish that I could
save her from going to the devil." Such were his sentiments.

On the second day Lord Chetwynde drove in to his rooms. He returned
looking very pale and grave. Zillah, who had gone out smilingly to
greet him, wondered at this.

"We talked about sparing her," said he, softly. "My darling wife, she
is beyond our reach now."

Zillah looked at him with fearful inquiry.

"She has gone--she is dead!"

"Dead!" cried Zillah, in a voice of horror.

"Yes, and by her own hand."

Lord Chetwynde then told her that on reaching his rooms he was waited
on by the _concierge_, who informed him that on the previous day the
lady whom the _concierge_ supposed to be his wife was found dead in
her bed by her maid. No one knew the cause. The absence of her
husband was much wondered at. Lord Chetwynde was so much shocked that
his deportment would have befitted one who was really a bereaved
husband. On questioning the maid he found that she had her
suspicions. She had found a vial on the table by the bed, about which
she had said nothing. She knew her duty to a noble family, and held
her tongue. She gave the vial to Lord Chetwynde, who recognized the
presence of strychnine. The unhappy one had no doubt committed
suicide. There was a letter addressed to him, which he took away. It
was a long manuscript, and contained a full account of all that she
had done, together with the most passionate declarations of her love.
He thought it best, on the whole, not to show this to Zillah.

He knew that she had committed suicide, but he did not know, nor did
any living being, the anguish that must have filled the wretched one
as she nerved her heart for the act. All this he could conjecture
from her letter, which told him how often she had meditated this. At
last it had come. Leaving the villa in her despair, she had gone to
her lodgings, passed the night in writing this manuscript, and then
flung her guilty soul into the presence of her Maker.

As Lord Chetwynde had not gone into Florentine society at all,
Hilda's death created but little sensation. There was no scan