'It is one fact, sir, that I am a widow,' she said. 'It is another fact,
that I am going to be married again.'

There she paused, and smiled at some thought that occurred to her.
Doctor Wybrow was not favourably impressed by her smile--
there was something at once sad and cruel in it. It came slowly,
and it went away suddenly. He began to doubt whether he had been wise
in acting on his first impression. His mind reverted to the commonplace
patients and the discoverable maladies that were waiting for him,
with a certain tender regret.

The lady went on.

'My approaching marriage,' she said, 'has one embarrassing
circumstance connected with it. The gentleman whose wife I am to be,
was engaged to another lady when he happened to meet with me, abroad:
that lady, mind, being of his own blood and family, related to
him as his cousin. I have innocently robbed her of her lover,
and destroyed her prospects in life. Innocently, I say--because he told
me nothing of his engagement until after I had accepted him.
When we next met in England--and when there was danger, no doubt,
of the affair coming to my knowledge--he told me the truth.
I was naturally indignant. He had his excuse ready; he showed me
a letter from the lady herself, releasing him from his engagement.
A more noble, a more high-minded letter, I never read in my life.
I cried over it--I who have no tears in me for sorrows of my own!
If the letter had left him any hope of being forgiven, I would
have positively refused to marry him. But the firmness of it--
without anger, without a word of reproach, with heartfelt wishes