“But heavens! the idea of being in love with her!  Why, she was the daughter of a farmer.  Well, then I fell in with her afterwards—­once or twice, to be accurate—­when I went down there on business, and she was a pretty, vain country girl—­”

“I used to know her,” assented Mrs. Lancaster.

“You did!” His face fell.

“Yes; when I went there to a little Winter resort for my throat—­when I was seventeen.  She used to go to the school taught by Mr. Keith.”

“She did?  Oh, then you know her name?  It was Tripper, wasn’t it?”

She nodded.

“I thought it was.  Well, she was quite pretty, you remember; and, as I say, I fell in with her again, and having been old friends—­” He shifted in his seat a little as if embarrassed—­“Why—­oh, you know how it is.  I began to talk nonsense to her to pass away the time,—­told her she was pretty and all that,—­and made her a few presents—­and—­” He paused and took a long breath.  “I thought she was very queer.  The first thing I knew, I found she was—­out of her mind.  Well, I stopped and soon came away, and, to my horror, she took it into her head that she was my wife.  She followed me here.  I had to go abroad, and I heard no more of her until, not long ago, I heard she had gone completely crazy and was hunting me up as her husband.  You know how such poor creatures are?” He paused, well satisfied with his recital, for first surprise and then a certain sympathy took the place of incredulity in Mrs. Lancaster’s face.

“She is absolutely mad, poor thing, I understand,” he sighed, with unmistakable sympathy in his voice.

“Yes,” Mrs. Lancaster assented, her thoughts drifting away.

He watched her keenly, and next moment began again.

“I heard she had got hold of Mr. Rimmon’s name and declares that he married us.”

Mrs. Lancaster returned to the present, and he went on: 

“I don’t know how she got hold of it.  I suppose his being the fashionable preacher, or his name being in the papers frequently, suggested the idea.  But if you have any doubt on the subject, ask him.”

Mrs. Lancaster looked assent.

“Here—­Having heard the story, and thinking it might be as well to stop it at once, I wrote to Mr. Rimmon to give me a statement to set the matter at rest, and I have it in my pocket.”  He took from his pocket-book a letter and spread it before Mrs. Lancaster.  It read: 

“DEAR MR. WICKERSHAM:  I am sorry you are being annoyed.  I cannot imagine that you should need any such statement as you request.  The records of marriages are kept in the proper office here.  Any one who will take the trouble to inspect those records will see that I have never made any such report.  This should be more than sufficient.

     “I feel sure this will answer your purpose.

          “Yours sincerely,

“W.H.  RIMMON.”

“I think that settles the matter,” said Wickersham, with his eyes on her face.