She looked up into his eyes with such anguish, that even Yates seemed troubled.
"Speak the truth, Sybil," he said, "speak the truth, I say; did the young lady write that letter they were talking about?"
Sybil shook her head, murmuring, under her breath, words that no one could understand.
"Speak, Sybil."
"I wrote the letter."
"That's enough—that's like you, Sybil," said Yates, triumphantly, forcing her cold hands from her face, and kissing them till she shuddered all over. "Now you can go, gentlemen. I should like a little private conversation with my wife."
Ralph Hinchley took Laurence by the arm, and led him gently from the room.
A year after this scene, when Yates had gone to California in search of the gold left buried at the ranche, Laurence and Margaret, all the wiser for the bitter experience of the past, stood before the altar of the pretty church near Mr. Waring's homestead, which was to be the resting-place of their future lives. It had been a happy place to them once, and now, with all the painful associations buried in perfect confidence, they turned to it with renewed affection.