You have accused me of having a lover.  You cannot have expected that I should continue to live with you after such an accusation.  For myself I cannot understand how any man can have brought himself to bring such a charge against his wife.  Even had it been true the accusation should not have been made by your mouth to my ears.

That it is untrue I believe you must be as well aware as I am myself.  How intimate I was with.  Mr. Finn, and what were the limits of my intimacy with him you knew before I married you.  After our marriage I encouraged his friendship till I found that there was something in it that displeased you,—­and, after learning that, I discouraged it.  You have said that he is my lover, but you have probably not defined for yourself that word very clearly.  You have felt yourself slighted because his name has been mentioned with praise;—­and your jealousy has been wounded because you have thought that I have regarded him as in some way superior to yourself.  You have never really thought that he was my lover,—­that he spoke words to me which others might not hear, that he claimed from me aught that a wife may not give, that he received aught which a friend should not receive.  The accusation has been a coward’s accusation.

I shall be at my father’s to-night, and to-morrow I will get you to let my servant bring to me such things as are my own,—­my clothes, namely, and desk, and a few books.  She will know what I want.  I trust you may be happier without a wife, than ever you have been with me.  I have felt almost daily since we were married that you were a man who would have been happier without a wife than with one.

   Yours affectionately,

   LAURA KENNEDY.

“It is at any rate true,” she said, when Phineas had read the letter.

“True!  Doubtless it is true,” said Phineas, “except that I do not suppose he was ever really angry with me, or jealous, or anything of the sort,—­because I got on well.  It seems absurd even to think it.”

“There is nothing too absurd for some men.  I remember your telling me that he was weak, and poor, and unworthy.  I remember your saying so when I first thought that he might become my husband.  I wish I had believed you when you told me so.  I should not have made such a shipwreck of myself as I have done.  That is all I had to say to you.  After what has passed between us I did not choose that you should hear how I was separated from my husband from any lips but my own.  I will go now and find papa.  Do not come with me.  I prefer being alone.”  Then he was left standing by himself, looking down upon the river as it glided by.  How would it have been with both of them if Lady Laura had accepted him three years ago, when she consented to join her lot with that of Mr. Kennedy, and had