When he had gone, she closed the window and bolted it, and, going to
the chimney-piece, placed the letters, one by one, in the flame of the
candle until they were consumed. I would not have the reader think,
that, during this painful operation, she was unmoved. Her hand trembled,
and--not being a brute--for some minutes (perhaps longer) she felt very
badly, and the corners of her sensitive mouth were depressed. When her
husband arrived, it was with a genuine joy that she ran to him, and
nestled against his broad breast with a feeling of security that
thrilled the honest fellow to the core.

"But I've heard dreadful news to-night, Elsie," said Mr. Decker, after a
few endearments were exchanged.

"Don't tell me any thing dreadful, dear: I'm not well to-night," she
pleaded sweetly.

"But it's about Mr. Oakhurst and Hamilton."

"Please!" Mr. Decker could not resist the petitionary grace of those
white hands and that sensitive mouth, and took her to his arms. Suddenly
he said, "What's that?"

He was pointing to the bosom of her white dress. Where Mr. Oakhurst had
touched her, there was a spot of blood.

It was nothing: she had slightly cut her hand in closing the window; it
shut so hard! If Mr. Decker had remembered to close and bolt the shutter
before he went out, he might have saved her this. There was such a
genuine irritability and force in this remark, that Mr. Decker was quite
overcome by remorse. But Mrs. Decker forgave him with that graciousness