“Whose handwriting is on this envelope?”

“Mine, to be sure.”

“Now, read the letter.”

Christopher read the forged letter.

“Oh, monstrous!”

“This was given her with your ruby ring, and a tale so artful that nothing we read about the devil comes near it.  This was what did it.  The Earl of Tadcaster brought her title, and wealth, and love.”

“What, he too!  The little cub I saved, and lost myself for—­blank him! blank him!”

“Why, you stupid ninny! you forget you were dead; and he could not help loving her.  How could he?  Well, but you see she refused him.  And why? because he came without a forged letter from you.  Do you doubt her love for you?”

“Of course I do.  She never loved me as I loved her.”

“Christopher, don’t you say that before me, or you and I shall quarrel.  Poor girl! she lay, in my sight, as near death for you as you were for her.  I’ll show you something.”

He went to a cabinet, and took out a silver paper; he unpinned it, and laid Rosa’s beautiful black hair upon her husband’s knees.  “Look at that, you hard-hearted brute!” he roared to Christopher, who sat, anything but hard-hearted, his eyes filling fast, at the sad proof of his wife’s love and suffering.

Rosa could bear no more.  She came out with her boy in her hand.  “O uncle, do not speak harshly to him, or you will kill me quite!”

She came across the room, a picture of timidity and penitence, with her whole eloquent body bent forward at an angle.  She kneeled at his knees, with streaming eyes, and held her boy up to him:  “Plead for your poor mother, my darling.  She mourns her fault, and will never excuse it.”

The cause was soon decided.  All Philip’s logic was nothing, compared with mighty nature.  Christopher gave one great sob, and took his darling to his heart, without one word; and he and Rosa clung together, and cried over each other.  Philip slipped out of the room, and left the restored ones together.

I have something more to say about my hero and heroine, but must first deal with other characters, not wholly uninteresting to the reader, I hope.

Dr. Staines directed Phoebe Falcon how to treat her husband.  No medicine, no stimulants; very wholesome food, in moderation, and the temperature of the body regulated by tepid water.  Under these instructions, the injured but still devoted wife was the real healer.  He pulled through, but was lame for life, and ridiculously lame, for he went with a spring halt,—­a sort of hop-and-go-one that made the girls laugh, and vexed Adonis.

Phoebe found the diamonds, and offered them all to Staines, in expiation of his villany.  “See,” she said, “he has only spent one.”

Staines said he was glad of it, for her sake, for he must be just to his own family.  He sold them for three thousand two hundred pounds; but for the big diamond he got twelve thousand pounds, and I believe it was worth double the money.