him less formidable, and he was minded to make it with no more delay as he tossed over his mail, while breakfasting in his room.

“Ah, what is this?” A letter in his wife’s hand, bearing the Liverpool postmark! Was she on her way to him, then? “Good God!” He tore off the cover hastily, but sat a moment with bowed head, his hand over his eyes, before reading it.

“My dear David, — My husband, forgive me. I have done wrong, but I meant to do right. They said words of you, — on our mountain, David, — words I hated; and I lied to them and came to you. I told them you had sent for me. I did it to prove to them that what they were saying was not true. I took the money you gave me and came to England, and now God has punished me, and I am going