and
made her proudly happy in her choice. But that he had never had for her
anything more than a brother-and-sister, boy-and-girl sort of
affection--a kind, careless, yet courteous tenderness--was something she
had to tell herself time and again, and to hear as well from the letters
of a man whose letters she should have forbidden.

Even in his astonishment at the charge brought against him, and in his
indignation at the accusation of deceit, Paul Abbot cannot but feel that
allowances must be made for Viva Winthrop. He meant to marry her, to be
a loyal and affectionate husband; but he had not loved her as women
love to be loved, and she was conscious of the lacking chord. That she
had been deceived and swindled, too, by some shameless scoundrel, and
made to believe in her _fiance's_ guilt, was another thing that was
plain to him. She had probably been told some very strong story of his
interest in this other girl. Very probably, too, Hollins was the
informer and, presumably, the designer of the plot. Who can tell how
deep and damnable it was, since it had been carried so far as to induce
the Warrens to believe that he was the writer of scores of letters from
the front? Then again, ever since he had raised that fainting girl in
his arms, especially ever since the moment when her lovely eyes were
lifted to his face and her sweet lips murmured his name, Paul Abbot has
been conscious of a longing to see her again. Not an instant has he been
able to forget her face, her beauty, her soft touch; the wave of color
that rushed to her brow as he met her at her father's door when the
nurse brought her, still trembling, back to the old man's bedside. He
had murmured some hardly articulate words, some promise of coming to
inquire for her on the morrow, and bowed his adieu. But now--now, he
feels that not only Genevieve, but that Bessie Warren, too, has been
made a victim of this scoundrel's plottings, and, though longing to see
her and hear her speak again, he knows not what to say. It was hard
enough to have to deny himself to the poor old doctor when he came out
to the Monocacy. _Could_ he look in her face and tell her it was all a
fraud; that some one had stolen and sent her his picture? some one had
stolen and used his name, and, whatsoever were the letters, all were
forgeries? No! He must wait and see Doctor Warren, and let her think him
come back to life--let her think they _were_ his letters--rather than
face her, and say it