rstand it," said Griffith. "Are these letters all forged,
or are there two Kate Gaunts? the one that wrote these prudent letters,
and the one I caught upon this very priest's arm. Perdition!"

Mrs. Gaunt started to her feet. "Methinks 'tis time for me to leave the
room," said she, scarlet.

"Gently, my good friends; one thing at a time," said Francis. "Sit thou
down, impetuous. The letters, sir,--what think you of them?"

"I see no harm in them," said Griffith.

"No harm! Is that all? But I say these are very remarkable letters, sir:
and they show us that a woman may be innocent and unsuspicious, and so
seem foolish, yet may be wise for all that. In her early communication
with Leonard,

'At Wisdom's gate Suspicion slept;
And thought no ill where no ill seemed.'

But, you see, suspicion being once aroused, wisdom was not to be lulled
nor blinded. But that is not all: these letters breathe a spirit of
Christian charity; of true, and rare, and exalted piety. Tender are
they, without passion; wise, yet not cold; full of conjugal love, and of
filial pity for an erring father, whom she leads, for his good, with
firm yet dutiful hand. Trust to my great experience: doubt the chastity
of snow rather than hers who could write these pure and exquisite lines.
My good friend, you heard me rebuke and sneer at this poor lady for
being too innocent and unsuspicious of man's frailty: now hear me own to
you that I could no more have written these angelic letters than a
barn-door fowl could soar to the mansions of the saints in heaven."

This unexpected tribute took Mrs. Gaunt's heart by storm; she threw her
arms round Father Francis's neck, and wept upon his shoulder.

"Ah!" she sobbed, "you are the only one left that loves me."

She could not understand justice praising her: it must be love.

"Ay," said Griffith, in a broken voice, "she writes like an angel: she
speaks like an angel: she looks like an angel. My heart says she is an
angel. But my eyes have shown me she is naught. I left her, unable to
walk, by her way of it; I came back and found her on that priest's arm,
springing along like a greyhound." He buried his head in his hands, and
groaned aloud.

Francis turned to Mrs. Gaunt, and said, a little severely, "How do you
account for that?"

"I'll tell _you_, Father," said Kate, "because you love me. I do not
speak to _you_, sir: for you never loved me."

"I could give thee the lie," said Griffith, in a