Suddenly the little, drooping figure on the chair had raised itself; the white, woe-begone face with the wide, staring eyes was turned towards me; the pitiful look had gone, and in its stead was one of wild, unspeakable joy.
"It's all right, Berna," I said; "I don't believe him, and if a million others were to say the same, if they were to thunder it in my ears down all eternity, I would tell them they lied, they lied!"
A heaven-lit radiance was in the grey eyes. She made as if to come to me, but she swayed, and I caught her in my arms.
"Don't be frightened, little girl. Give me your hand. See! I'll kiss it, dear. Now, don't cry; don't, honey."
Her arms were around me. She clung to me ever so tightly.
"Garry," I said, "this is my wife. When I have lost my belief in all else, I will believe in her. You have made us both suffer. As for what you've said—you're mistaken. She's a good, good girl. I will not believe that by thought, word or deed she has been untrue to me. She will explain everything. Now, good-bye. Come, Berna."
Suddenly she stopped me. Her hand was on my arm, and she turned towards Garry. She held herself as proudly as a queen.
"I want to explain now," she said, "before you both."
She pulled from her bosom a little crumpled note, and handed it to me. Then, as I read it, a great light burst on me. Here it was:
"Dear Berna: