man when I married him,’ said my aunt, with an echo of her old pride and admiration in her tone; ‘and I believed him — I was a fool!

— to be the soul of honour!’

She gave my hand a squeeze, and shook her head.

‘He is nothing to me now, Trot — less than nothing. But, sooner than have him punished for his offences (as he would be if he prowled about in this country), I give him more money than I can afford, at intervals when he reappears, to go away. I was a fool when I married him; and I am so far an incurable fool on that subject, that, for the sake of what I once believed him to be, I wouldn’t have even this shadow of my idle fancy hardly dealt with.

For I was in earnest, Trot, if ever a woman was.’