larm; and (unless you admit me to your confidence) I can do no
more.'

She rose, and took a turn in the room. 'Suppose I tell you?' she said.
'But, mind, I shall mention no names!'

'There is no need to mention names. The facts are all I want.'

'The facts are nothing,' she rejoined. 'I have only my own impressions
to confess--and you will very likely think me a fanciful fool when you
hear what they are. No matter. I will do my best to content you--I
will begin with the facts that you want. Take my word for it, they
won't do much to help you.'

She sat down again. In the plainest possible words, she began the
strangest and wildest confession that had ever reached the Doctor's
ears.

CHAPTER II

'It is one fact, sir, that I am a widow,' she said. 'It is another
fact, that I am going to be married again.'

There she paused, and smiled at some thought that occurred to her.
Doctor Wybrow was not favourably impressed by her smile--there was
something at once sad and cruel in it. It came slowly, and it went
away suddenly. He began to doubt whether he had been wise in acting on
his first impression. His mind reverted to the commonplace patients
and the discoverable maladies that were waiting for him, with a certain
tender regret.

The lady went on.

'My approaching marriage,' she said, 'has one embarrassing circumstance
connected with it. The gentleman whose wife I am to be, was engaged to
another lady when he happened to meet with me, abroad: that lady, mind,
being of his own blood and family, related to him as his cousin. I
have innocently robbed her of her lover, and destroyed her prospects in
life. Innocently, I say--because he told me nothing of his engagement
until after I had accepted him. When we next met in England--and when
there was danger, no doubt, of the affair coming to my knowledge--he
told me the truth. I was naturally indignant. He had his excuse
ready; he showed me a letter from the lady herself, releasing him from
his engagement. A more noble, a more high-minded letter, I never read
in my life. I cried over it--I who have no tears in me for sorrows of
my own! If the letter had left him any hope of being forgiven, I would
have positively refused to marry him. But the firmness of it--without
anger, without a word of reproach, with heartfelt wishes even for his
happiness--the firmness of it, I say, left him no hope. He appealed to
my compassion; he appealed to his love for me. You know wh