She was not more so now than she had been when her father's friend, purposely dressed for the occasion, had kissed her in the vestry of the church in which she was married, and had given her a blessing, which was then intended to be semi-paternal,--as from an old man to a young woman.

She was not in love with him,--never would be, never could be in love with him.

Reader, you may believe in her so far as that.

But where is the woman, who, when she is neglected, thrown over, and suspected by the man that she loves, will not feel the desire of some sympathy, some solicitude, some show of regard from another man?
This woman's life, too, had not hitherto been of such a nature that the tranquillity of the Clock House at Nuncombe Putney afforded to her all that she desired.

She had been there now a month, and was almost sick from the want of excitement.
And she was full of wrath against her husband.