gs of men, I have argued the
thing out with myself, and I say unreservedly that they were right and
I was wrong--wrong from beginning to end, wrong to my mother, wrong to
my wife (as she once was), wrong to Margaret, wrong to myself. Your
influence has always been on the side of right and truth, Janetta, and
you more than once told me that I was wrong.

"So I make my confession. I do not think that I shall come back to
England just yet. I am going to America next week. You will not leave
the Red House, will you? While you are there I can feel at ease about my
mother and my boy. I trust you with them entirely, Janetta; and I want
you to trust me. Wherever I may go, and whatever I may do, I will
henceforward be worthy of your trust and of your friendship."

This was the letter that Janetta read under the beech trees; and as she
read it tears gathered in her eyes and fell upon the pages. But they
were not tears of sadness--rather tears of joy and thankfulness. For
Wyvis Brand's aberration of mind--so it had always appeared to her--had
given her much pain and sorrow. And he seemed now to have placed his
foot upon the road to better things.

She was still holding the letter in her hand when she reached the end of
the beech-tree shaded walk along which she had been slowly walking. The
tears were wet upon her cheeks, but a smile played on her lips. She did
not notice for some time that she was watched from the gate that led
into the pasture-land, at the end of the beech-tree walk, by a woman,
who seemed uncertain whether to speak, to enter, or to go away.

Janetta saw her at last, and wondered what she was doing there. She put
the letter into her pocket, dashed the tears from her eyes, and advanced
towards the gate.

"Can I do anything for you?" she said.

The woman looked about thirty-five years old, and possessed the remains
of great beauty. She was haggard and worn: her cheeks were sunken,
though brilliantly red, and her large, velvety-brown eyes were strangely
bright. Her dark, waving hair had probably once been curled over her
brow: it now hung almost straight, and had a rough, dishevelled look,
which corresponded with the soiled and untidy appearance of her dress.
Her gown and mantle were of rich stuff, but torn and stained in many
places; and her gloves and boots were shabby to the very last degree,
while her bonnet, of cheap and tawdry materials, had at any rate the
one merit of being fresh and new. Altogether sh