"Don't you know it?"
The tone and look that accompanied this question, more than the question itself, produced an instant revulsion in Miller's feelings.
"No, I do not know it!" he replied, emphatically—"Do you know it?"
Conscious that he had gone too far, the friend hesitated, and appeared confused.
"Why have you spoken to me in the way that you have done? Are you jesting or in earnest?"
Miller's face was pale, and his lip quivered as he said this.
"Seriously, my friend," replied the other, "if you do not know that Westfield was a suitor to your wife, and only made known his love to her after you had offered her your hand, it is time that you did know it. I thought you were aware of this."
"No, I never dreamed of such a thing. Surely it cannot be true."
"I know it to be true, for I was in correspondence with Westfield, and was fully aware of his sentiments. Your marriage almost set him beside himself."
As soon as Miller could get away from the individual who gave him this startling information, he turned his steps homeward. He did not ask himself why he did so. In fact, there was no purpose in his mind. He felt wretched beyond description. The information just conveyed, awakened the most dreadful suspicions, that would not yield to any effort his generous feelings made to banish them.