shamefaced to own the truth, look at her--that's all I ask--look
at her, and judge for yourself!"

This was intolerable. In justice to Susan, in justice to Rothsay,
I insisted on silence. "No more of it!" I said. "Take care how
you provoke me. Don't you see that I am ill? don't you see that
you are irritating me to no purpose?"

She altered her tone. "I'll wait," she said, quietly, "while you
compose yourself."

With those words, she walked to the window, and stood there with
her back toward me. Was the wretch taking advantage of my
helpless condition? I stretched out my hand to ring the bell, and
have her sent away--and hesitated to degrade Susan's mother, for
Susan's sake. In my state of prostration, how could I arrive at a
decision? My mind was dreadfully disturbed; I felt the imperative
necessity of turning my thoughts to some other subject. Looking
about me, the letters on the table attracted my attention.
Mechanically, I took them up; mechanically I put them down again.
Two of them slipped from my trembling fingers; my eyes fell on
the uppermost of the two. The address was in the handwriting of
the good friend with whom Rothsay was sailing.

Just as I had been speaking of Rothsay, here was the news of him
for which I had been waiting.

I opened the letter and read these words: