"You cannot see Jessie to-night," she answered firmly. "She has flown back to me in wild affright—the mere wreck of what she was, poor child! when I gave her into your keeping—and the inviolable sanctity of my house is around her. I much fear, Leon Dexter, that you have proved recreant to your trust—that you have not loved, protected, and cherished that delicate flower. The sweetness of her life is gone?"
The woman of the world had actually warmed into sentiment.
"It is I who have suffered wrong," said Mr. Dexter. "Sit down, Mrs. Loring, and hear me. If I cannot see my wife—if she willfully persists in the step she has taken—then will I clear my skirts. You, at least, if not the world, must know the truth. Sit down, madam, and listen."
They moved back from the door, and crossing the parlor, sat down together on a sofa.
"What is wrong?" asked Mrs. Loring, the manner and words of Mr. Dexter filling her mind with vague fear.
"Much," was answered.
"Say on."
"Your niece, I have reason to believe, is not true to me," said Dexter.
"Sir!" Astonishment and indignation blended in the tone of Mrs. Loring's voice.
"I happened to come upon her unawares to-day, taking her in the very act of encouraging the attentions of a man whose presence and detected intimacy with her, at Newport, were the causes of her illness there."