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“Yes, it would be hard; but in those I loved, I could forgive much for love’s sake.”

With a sudden gesture he took her hand saying, impulsively, “How little changed you are! Do you remember that last ride of ours nearly five years ago?”

“Yes, Paul,” she answered, with averted eyes.

“And what we talked of?”

“A part of that childish gossip I remember well.”

“Which part?”

“The pretty little romance you told me.” And Lillian looked up now, longing to ask if Helen’s childhood had been blighted like her youth.

Paul dropped her hand as if he, read her thoughts, and his own hand went involuntarily toward his breast, betraying that the locket still hung there.

“What did I say?” he asked, smiling at her sudden shyness.

“You vowed you’d win and wed your fair little lady-love if you lived.”

“And so I will,” he cried, with sudden fire in his eyes.

“What, marry her?”

“Aye, that I will.”

“Oh Paul, will you tie yourself for life to a–” The word died on her lips, but a gesture of repugnance finished the speech.

“A what?” he demanded, excitedly.

“An innocent, one bereft of reason,” stammered Lillian, entirely forgetting herself in her interest for him.

“Of whom do you speak?” asked Paul, looking utterly bewildered,

“Of poor Helen.”

“Good heavens, who told you that base lie?” And his voice deepened with indignant pain.

“I saw her, you did not deny her affliction; Hester said so, and I believed it. Have I wronged her, Paul?”

“Yes, cruelly. She is blind, but no idiot, thank God.”

There was such earnestness in his voice, such reproach in his words, and such ardor in his eye, that Lillian’s pride gave way, and with a broken entreaty for pardon, she covered up her face, weeping the bitterest tears she ever shed. For in that moment, and the sharp pang it brought her, she felt how much she loved Paul and how hard it was to lose him. The childish affection had blossomed into a woman’s passion, and in a few short weeks had passed through many phases of jealousy, hope, despair, and self-delusion. The joy she felt on seeing him again, the pride she took in him, the disgust Helen caused her, the relief she had not dared to own even to herself, when she fancied fate had put an insurmountable barrier between Paul and his cousin, the despair at finding it only a fancy, and the anguish of hearing him declare his unshaken purpose to marry his first love–all these conflicting emotions had led to this hard moment, and now self-control deserted her in her need. In spite of her efforts the passionate tears would have their way, though Paul soothed her with assurances of entire forgiveness, promises of Helen’s friendship, and every gentle device he could imagine. She commanded herself at last by a strong effort, murmuring eagerly as she shrank from the hand that put back her fallen hair, and the face so full of tender sympathy bending over her:

“I am so grieved and ashamed at what I have said and done. I shall never dare to see Helen. Forgive me, and forget this folly. I’m sad and heavyhearted just now; it’s the anniversary of Papa’s death, and Mamma always suffers so much at such times that I get nervous.”

“It is your birthday also. I remembered it, and ventured to bring a little token in return for the one you gave me long ago. This is a talisman, and tomorrow I will tell you the legend concerning it. Wear it for my sake, and God bless you, dear.”

The last words were whispered hurriedly; Lillian saw the glitter of an antique ring, felt the touch of bearded lips on her hand, and Paul was gone.

But as he left the house he set his teeth, exclaiming low to himself, “Yes, tomorrow there shall be an end of this! We must risk everything and abide the consequences now. I’ll have no more torment for any of us.”