That the spirit of the hour
Shall reveal love’s completeness.”
She was as pale as death and trembling all over as I looked up. For the moment my heart withered to her. The shock, the outrage was unendurable.
“Who wrote this?” I demanded, in a hoarse whisper.
She did not answer.
“Speak,” I said. “How did it come to you?”
“I heard it slipped under the door,” she muttered.
“By him? O, you little traitor and wanton!”
She fell on her knees, sobbing and clinging to me in a soft anguish of desperation.
“O, my dear, don’t look at me so! I’m not untrue to you. I never imagined it was me—no, not for one moment—till to-night.”