"I do not even suspect, mamma."

"What do you conjecture, then?" persisted the lady.

"I cannot conjecture; I am all lost in amazement, mamma; but I feel--I
feel--that it must be some fault in myself," faltered Berenice.

"What fault?"

"Ah, there again I am lost in perplexity; faults I have enough, Heaven
knows; but what particular one is strong enough to estrange my husband I
do not know, I cannot guess."

"Has he never accused you?"

"Never, mamma."

"Nor quarreled with you?"

"Never!"

"Nor complained of you at all?"

"No, mamma! The first intimation that I had of his displeasure was given
me the night of my arrival, when he betrayed some annoyance at my coming
upon him suddenly without having previously written. I gave him what I
supposed to be sufficient reasons for my act--the same reasons that I
afterwards gave you."