? Could he have come
to the house so often without at least your permission?"

Mary was actually taking the upper hand with her! Sepia felt it with
scarcely repressive rage.

"He deserved the punishment," she replied, with calmness.

"You do not seem to have thought of his wife!"

"Certainly not. She never gave me offense."

"Is offense the only ground for casting a regard on a fellow-creature?"

"Why should I think of her?"

"Because she was your neighbor, and you were doing her a wrong."

"Once for all, Marston," cried Sepia, overcome at last, "this kind of
thing will not do with me. I may not be a saint, but I have honesty
enough to know the genuine thing from humbug. You have thrown dust in a
good many eyes in this house, but _none_ in mine."

By this time Mary had got her temper quite in hand, taking a lesson
from the serpent, who will often keep his when the dove loses hers. She
hardly knew what fear was, for she had in her something a little
stronger than what generally goes by the name of faith. She was
therefore able to see that she ought, if possible, to learn Sepia's
object in talking thus to her.

"Why do you say all this to me?" she asked, quietly. "I can not flatter
myself it is from friendship."

"Certainly not. But the motive may be worthy, for all that. You are not
the only one involved. People who would pass for better than their
neighbors will never believe any good purpose in one who does not
choose to talk their slang."

Sepia had repressed her rage, and through it looked aggrieved. "She
confesses to a purpose," said Mary to herself, and waited.

"They are not all villains who are not saints," Sepia went on. "--This
man's wife is your friend?"

"She is."

"Well, the man himself is my friend--in a sort of a sense." A strange
shiver went through Mary, and seemed to make her angry. Sepia went on:

"I confess I allowed the poor boy--he is little more--to talk foolishly
to me. I was amused at first, but perhaps I have not quite escaped
unhurt; and, as a woman, you must understand that, when a woman has
once felt in that way, if but for a moment, she would at least
be--sorry--" Here her voice faltered, and she did not finish the
sentence, but began afresh: "What I want of you is, through his wife,
or any way you think best, to let the poor fellow know he had better
slip away--to France, say--and stop there till the thing blow over."

"But why should you imagine he has had anything to