“Algernon, I never received the sums you name, not even a letter from you after the third year of our separation.”

“Can this be true?” exclaimed Algernon, grasping her arm.  “Is it possible that this statement can be true?”

“As true as that I now stand before you a betrayed, forsaken, heart-broken woman.”

“Poor Elinor; how can I look into that sad face, and believe you false?”

“God bless you, my once dear friend, for these kind words.  You know not the peace they convey to my aching heart.  Oh, Algernon, my sufferings have been dreadful; and there were times when I ceased to know those sufferings.  They called me mad, but I was happy then.  My dreams were of you.  I thought myself your wife, and my misery as Mark’s helpmate was forgotten.  When sanity returned, the horrible consciousness that you believed me a heartless, ungrateful, avaricious woman, was the worst pang of all.  Oh, how I longed to throw myself at your feet, and tell you the whole dreadful truth.  I would not have insulted you to-night with my presence, or wounded your peace with a recapitulation of my wrongs, but I could no longer live and bear the imputation of such guilt.  When you have heard my sad story, you will, I am sure, not only pity, but forgive me.”

With feelings of unalloyed indignation, Algernon listened to the iniquitous manner in which Elinor had been deceived and betrayed, and when she concluded her sad relation, he fiercely declared that he would return to the sick man’s chamber—­reproach him with his crimes, and revoke his forgiveness.

“Leave the sinner to his God!” exclaimed the terrified Elinor, placing herself before the door.  “For my sake—­for your own sake, pity and forgive him.  Remember that, monster though he be, he is my husband and your brother, the father of the unfortunate child whose birth I anticipate with such sad forebodings.”

“Before that period arrives,” said Algernon, with deep commiseration.  “Mark will have paid the forfeit of his crimes, and your child will be the heir of immense wealth.”

“You believe him to be a dying man,” said Elinor.  “He will live.  A change has come over him for the better; the surgeon, this morning, gave strong hopes of his recovery.  Sinner that I am, if he could but have looked into my heart he would have been shocked at the pain that this communication conveyed.  Algernon, I wished his death.  God has reversed the awful sentence; it is the mother, not the father of the unhappy infant, that will be called hence.  Heaven knows that I am weary of life—­that I would willingly die, could I but take the poor babe with me; should it, however, survive its unfortunate mother, promise me, Algernon, by the love of our early years, to be a guardian and protector to my child.”

She endeavored to sink at his feet, but Algernon prevented her.

“Your request is granted, Elinor, and for the dear mother’s sake, I promise to cherish the infant as my own.”