would forgive her--he must forgive her. I could not reconcile it with my
conscience to keep silence, I could not, and I believed that the truth
might be told with safety. So, after long thinking and deliberation, I
came to the conclusion that Lance must know, and that she must tell him
herself.

It was in the middle of a bright, sunshiny afternoon when they returned.
When Lance brought his wife into the drawing-room he seemed very anxious
over her.

"Frances does not seem well," he said to me. "Ring the bell, John, and
order some hot tea; she is as cold as death."

Her eyes met mine, and in them I read the question--"What are you going
to do?" I was struck by her dreadful pallor.

"Is your head bad again today?" I asked.

"Yes, it aches very much," she replied.

The hot tea came, and it seemed to revive her; but after a few minutes
the dreadful shivering came over her again. She stood up.

"Lance," she said, "I will go to my room, and you must lead me; my head
aches so that I am blind."

She left her pretty drawing-room, never to re-enter it. The next day at
noon Lance came to me with a sad face.

"John, my wife is very ill, and I have just heard bad news."