course was to follow out what her husband had
said. Still with what consequences was such a
resolution fraught—a desperate man whose rage
and fury at being neglected might lead him into
violence, and above all, that unseen and
mysterious danger, which she shrank from and yet
which could not be neglected. Suddenly an
idea came to her aid.

CHAPTER XXI. A FATAL MISTAKE.

ADA went to her writing-table, and was
presently busy with a letter, for all was to be
concluded that night. It was addressed to Ross,
and ran in this shape:

"My DEAR WILLIAM. If you have ever
had any love for me, you will do what I now
implore of you to do. If you would not make
us both miserable, if you have any trust in the
regard I had for you, you will comply with my
dearest wishes in this matter.

"Latterly, I do not conceal it from you, you
have caused me much wretchedness.
Independent of all, I feel for you now, and the
misfortunes you have suffered. The way you have
behaved to us has added to my own trials.
This cannot go on. Matters have come to that
pass that it is necessary for our own peace and
happiness that I do not see you any more. If
it is any comfort to you to know this, I tell you
it is a deep and painful sacrifice to me; for you
have hitherto listened to me, and I believe I
have had some little influence over you. But
it cannot go on longer. There are reasons
which I must not tell you. You must not come
to our house, that is, if you do not wish to make
me wretched. I have undertaken solemn duties,
and you know me well enough to know that
whatever is my duty I am determined to carry it
through. You must not come here again. I
will not see you, and you must give over all that
unruliness, for which I can make allowance, but
which will only lead to confusion and misery,
and disturb our household. I know I can rely
on your faith and affection, especially when I
tell you that on your complying with this wish
of mine more depends than you can conceive.
I have a presentiment at this moment that
something dreadful is impending, unless you
comply. Therefore I implore and command
you, dearest Ross, to comply with what I wish.
Save me, too, from the importunity of others of
your friends. Do all this, and my prayer is
that you may be rewarded.—Yours, " A.T."

This letter she sealed up, and sent down to be
despatched at once. Then she at last had the
feeling on her of having made a perfect sacrifice,
and of having done, at all risks, " her duty."
At dinner she met her husband with a confident
calm gaze; but he shrank from hers. During
that meal he seemed to be trying to speak of
indifferent matters. When it was over, he asked
had she done some little commission which it
was agreed she should do. Accepting this as a
proof of interest, she answered eagerly that she
had not, but had fixed to do it " the very first
thing in the morning."

"Ah," he said, " exactly. It is the same
with everything I ask or wish for."

Again her eyes fell on him with a look of
calm, almost cold interrogation. He went on
impatiently: " You understand me. You know
what I mean. I am not worth obeying in
anything. I am only fit to be hoodwinked and
deceived. Ah, now you begin to follow me. I
told you what my wishes were about Ross, and
how faithfully you carry them out. You saw
this man to-day. I know it. You can't deny it!"

She drew herself up with a wounded, almost
shocked air. " It has come to this, then," she
said, sadly. " I have lost your confidence. It's
of no use trying to convince. But I may tell you,
if I did see him and write to him, it was only to
give him a final warning, and for the special
object of carrying out what you wished and
desired."

Again he was humiliated and repentant. He
covered his face. " I am a miserable and
suspicious creature. I know not what I am coming
to. But I hear and know such things. I dare
not trust even my own heart. Forgive me,
forgive me. Do not think too meanly of me,
but only show me that it is so, and I will try for
the future and drive out this miserable demon
of mistrust."

Her face cleared in a moment. The old softness
and sweetness came pouring back into it,
and was diffused over it like a glory. " Stop,"
she said, with a sudden instinct. " You will see
from his letter; from the answer that he will
send. You may read it; will that convince
you?"

"Ah, yes!" he said, eagerly.

"Yes; but you will have indulgence for this
wretched weakness, and after this I promise
solemnly——" But a little trouble and doubt
had come into her mind. "Ah, if you
sincerely loved and trusted me, you would not
need such a poor proof. Do not ask this, or
humiliate me so much. It will be better not."

He was cold again in a moment. " You
proposed this yourself," he said.

An hour later, as she had anticipated, arrived
the answer, written in characters of impetuous
fire: a fierce scrawl. It was brought into
Mr. Tillotson's study. She sat alone in her
drawing-room. With a fluttering heart she
waited, for she began to feel a little nervous.
What if that mad, foolish Ross had written
things—she hadn't thought of that. But in a
moment the servant came in, and laid the letter
before her. It was sealed—sealed with wax;
it had not been opened. The old confidence
had come back to her husband. He had trusted
her. He had not read. Good, generous, noble
nature! With a fluttering heart she read this
epistle, in a different key to his usual strain:

"Your letter finds me ill and in bed, and
hardly able to draw a breath. I suppose there
will soon be an end of me, and of my sore and
miserable life. The sooner the better I say, for