“My message!” he cried, with a mocking laugh.
“Yes; your telegram with its few words which sent joy to my weary heart, as I waited for news of him I loved.”
“My telegram!” he said, with the same low, harsh laugh. “There, back home to your father, woman. I believed, but I am awake now, and can be fooled no more.”
She struggled with herself again, and panted wildly.
“You must, you shall believe me, dear. I forgive you all this because I know it is your great love for me, and you think I have deceived you. Yes; I know what you must feel, dear, and so I beat down all my cruel anger, and humble myself like this in my pity for you and despair. I read your dear words.”
“My words! I sent no telegram. I came down hurrying to be once more at the side of the woman who in my folly I believed to be a saint. I come and I find her clasped in the arms of my greatest enemy—my own brother—and you talk to me like this.”
She uttered a low, piteous wail, and the struggle within her was intense.
“Yes, it is true; you sent me that message—‘Coming down by the three six train to Blinkdale. Meet me along the high path.’”
“It is false,” he cried hastily.
“No, no,” she cried, as her hand went to the bosom of her dress, and she snatched out a crumpled-up piece of paper. “Take it and read.”