It would, no doubt, be pleasant to her to sow dissension between us, but would even _she_ dare to carry ill tales of a wife to a husband?
And even supposing that she had, would he attach so much importance to my being seen with wet cheeks?
I, who cry so easily--I, who wept myself nearly blind when Jacky caught his leg in the snare?
If he thinks so much of that part of the tale, _what would he think of the rest_?
As I make this reflection I shudder, and again congratulate myself on my silence.

For beyond our parting, and my tears, it is _impossible_ that she can have told him aught.
Men are not prone to publish their own discomfitures; even _I_ know that much.

I exonerate Mr.Musgrave from all share in making it known--and have the mossed tree-trunks lips?
or the loud brook an articulate tongue?
Thank God! thank God! _no!_ Nature never blabs.

With infinite composure, with a most calm smile she _listens_, but she never tells again.
A little reassured by this thought, I resolve to remain in doubt no longer than I can help, but to ascertain, if necessary, by direct inquiry, whether my suspicions are correct.

This determination is no sooner come to than it puts fresh life and energy into my limbs.