This morning Patty was up with the dawn.  She did not trouble to wake the groom, but saddled and bridled the horse herself.  She mounted and rode quietly into the street.  She did not glance at Warrington’s house while approaching or passing it, but once she had left it in the rear she turned quickly, flushing as if she had caught herself in some weakness.  She directed the horse toward the west, crossing the city before she reached the open country.  Here the west wind, young and crisp, blew away the last vestige of heaviness from her eyes.  She urged the horse into a canter and maintained this gait for a mile or more.  Then she reined in to a walk.

Three weeks!  And all this time she had not even breathed a word of it, but had hugged the viper to her heart in silence.  She dropped the reins on the neck of the horse and took a letter from the pocket of her riding-coat.  How many times had she read it?  How many times had fury and rage and despair flashed from her eyes as she read it?  She hated him; she hated her.  There was neither honesty nor goodness in the world; those who preached it lied.  Yes, yes!  There was one.  John, dear, noble John, he at any rate was honest.  But it was all acting on her part, acting, acting.  She had married John as a convenience; she had made use of his honest love as a cloak.  The despicable creature!  And yet, when in her presence, so great was her charm and magnetism, Patty doubted.  After all, it was an anonymous letter, and nothing is more vile.  But who can say to this viper Doubt—­“Vanish!” It goes, it goes again and again; which is to say it always returns.  Long ago she would have confronted her brother’s wife with this letter, had not John been in the heart of his battle at the shops.  For the present he had enough trouble.  And yet, to see that woman with John, an angel might be deceived.  To see her weep and laugh over him, to see her touch him with her hands, to caress him with her eyes, to be tender and strong at his side. ...  Could anybody be so wicked?  True, her transgression had been made, according to this letter, before John had married her; but this lessened the enormity of it none in Patty’s eyes.

“Oh, I was so happy, and now I am so miserable!” murmured the girl, pressing her hand to her throat, which seemed to stifle her.

She read the letter again, through blurred vision.  It was horrible.

One who takes a deep interest in your future welfare finds it a duty to warn you against Richard Warrington, for whom it is being said you have developed a strong sentiment.  It is well known that he drank deeply at one time and lived the life of a debauchee.  Beware of the woman, also, whom you call sister.  The writer does not offer anything detrimental to her married life, but it is known that she was practically Warrington’s mistress before she married your splendid brother.  She was seen frequently to enter his apartments at night, and the writer can