"Mr. Magistrate," spoke Duff Salter, a little confused. "I sent him drafts at his request. He knew me to be the resident executor, and wrote to me. I did it because of the pity I had for Agnes, and my faith in her assurance that he was innocent."
"Good! Yes!" exclaimed the magistrate. "I would have done the same myself."
"I returned with my man," concluded Andrew Zane. "I was now so confident that I did not fear; but a hard obstinacy, coming on me at times, I know not how, impelled me to postpone my vindication and make a test of everybody. I was full of suspicion and bitterness—the reaction from so much undeserved anxiety. I was the ghost of Kensington, and the spy upon my guardian, but the unknown sentry upon my wife's honor all the while.
"Magistrate!"—the young man turned to the alderman, and his face flushed—"is there no punishment at law for men, and women too, who have cruelly persecuted my wife with anonymous letters, intended to wound her brave spirit to the quick?"
"Plenty of it," said the magistrate. "Yes, I will. I will warrant them all."
"I will not forget it," said Andrew Zane darkly.
"My husband, forget everything!" exclaimed Agnes. "Except that we are happy. God has forgiven us our only deceit, which has been the temptation of many in dear old Kensington."
The old magistrate arose. "Case dismissed," he said: "Dinner is ready in the next room for Mr. and Mrs. Zane, and Judge Salter. I fine you all a dinner. Yes, yes! I will!"