“A poor excuse for a man, Marian.  No, my charity will not stretch far enough for that.  But I do not come to you quite on a selfish errand, to speak solely of my own wrongs.  I have something to tell you of real importance to yourself.”

“What is that?”

Gilbert Fenton described the result of his first advertisement, and his acquaintance with Jacob Nowell.

“It is my impression that this old man is rich, Marian; and there is little doubt that he would leave all he possesses to you, if you went to him at once.”

“I do not care very much about money for my own sake,” she answered with rather a mournful smile; “but we are not rich, and I should be glad of anything that would improve my husband’s position.  I should like to see my grandfather:  I stand so much alone in the world that it would be very sweet to me to find a near relation.”

“Your husband must surely have seen Mr. Nowell’s advertisement,” Gilbert said after a pause.  “It was odd that he did not tell you about it—­that he did not wish you to reply to it.”

“The advertisement may have escaped him, or he may have looked upon it as a trap to discover our retreat,” Marian answered frankly.

“I cannot understand the motive for such secrecy.”

“There is no occasion that you should understand it.  Every life has its own mystery—­its peculiar perplexities.  When I married my husband, I was prepared to share all his troubles.  I have been obedient to him in everything.”

“And has your marriage brought you happiness, Marian?”

“I love my husband,” she answered with a plaintive reproachful look, as if there had been a kind of cruelty in his straight question.  “I do not suppose that there is such a thing as perfect happiness in the world.”

The answer was enough for Gilbert Fenton.  It told him that this girl’s life was not all sunshine.

He had not the heart to push his inquiries farther.  He felt that he had no right to remain any longer, when in all probability his presence was a torture to the girl who had injured him.

“I will not prolong my visit, Marian,” he said regretfully.

“It was altogether a foolish one, perhaps; but I wanted so much to see you once more, to hear some explanation of your conduct from your own lips.”

“My conduct can admit of neither explanation nor justification,” she replied humbly.  “I know how wickedly I have acted.  Believe me, Gilbert, I am quite conscious of my unworthiness, and how little right I have to expect your forgiveness.”

“It is my weakness, rather than my merit, not to be able to cherish any angry feeling against you, Marian.  Mine has been a slavish kind of love.  I suppose that sort of thing never is successful.  Women have an instinctive contempt for men who love them with such blind unreasonable idolatry.”

“I do not know how that may be; but I know that I have always respected and esteemed you,” she answered in her gentle pleading way.