Lady Cicely suggested that perhaps Dr. Staines thought it best for her to be relieved of all worry, and so undertook the housekeeping.

“No, no, no,” said Rosa; “I used to pay them all a part of their bills, and then a little more, and so I kept getting deeper; and I was ashamed to tell Christie, so that he calls deceit; and oh, he spoke to me so cruelly once!  But he was very sorry afterwards, poor dear!  Why are girls brought up so silly? all piano, and no sense; and why are men sillier still to go and marry such silly things?  A wife!  I am not so much as a servant.  Oh, I am finely humiliated, and,” with a sudden hearty naivete all her own, “it serves me just right.”

While Lady Cicely was puzzling this out, in came a letter.  Rosa opened it, read it, and gave a cry like a wounded deer.

“Oh!” she cried, “I am a miserable woman.  What will become of me?”

The letter informed her bluntly that her husband drove his brougham out every night to pursue a criminal amour.

While Rosa was wringing her hands in real anguish of heart, Lady Cicely read the letter carefully.

“I don’t believe this,” said she quietly.

“Not true!  Why, who would be so wicked as to stab a poor, inoffensive wretch like me, if it wasn’t true?”

“The first ugly woman would, in a minute.  Don’t you see the witer can’t tell you where he goes?  Dwives his bwougham out!  That is all your infaumant knows.”

“Oh, my dear friend, bless you!  What have I been complaining to you about?  All is light, except to lose his love.  What shall I do?  I will never tell him.  I will never affront him by saying I suspected him.”

“Wosa, if you do that, you will always have a serpent gnawing you.  No; you must put the letter quietly into his hand, and say, ’Is there any truth in that?’”

“Oh, I could not.  I haven’t the courage.  If I do that, I shall know by his face if there is any truth in it.”

“Well, and you must know the twuth.  You shall know it.  I want to know it too; for if he does not love you twuly, I will nevaa twust myself to anything so deceitful as a man.”

Rosa at last consented to follow this advice.

After dinner she put the letter into Christopher’s hand, and asked him quietly was there any truth in that:  then her hands trembled, and her eyes drank him.

Christopher read it, and frowned; then he looked up, and said, “No, not a word.  What scoundrels there are in the world!  To go and tell you that, now!  Why, you little goose! have you been silly enough to believe it?”

“No,” said she irresolutely.  “But do you drive the brougham out every night?”

“Except Sunday.”

“Where?”

“My dear wife, I never loved you as I love you now; and if it was not for you, I should not drive the brougham out of nights.  That is all I shall tell you at present; but some day I’ll tell you all about it.”