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“But it is so beautiful, so noble to forgive, and return a blessing for a curse. Let us bury the old feud, and right the old wrong in a new way. Those two are so blameless, it is cruel to visit the sins of the dead on their innocent heads. My lady has suffered enough already, and Lillian is so young, so happy, so unfit to meet a storm like this. Oh, Helen, mercy is more divine than justice.”

Something moved Paul deeply, and Helen seemed about to yield, when the name of Lillian wrought a subtle change in her. The color died out of her face, her black eyes burned with a gloomy fire, and her voice was relentless as she answered, while her frail hands held him fast, “I will not let you give it up. We are as innocent as they; we have suffered more; and we deserve our rights, for we have no sin to expiate. Go on, Paul, and forget the sentimental folly that unmans you.”

Something in her words seemed to sting or wound him. His face darkened, and he put her away, saying briefly, “Let it be so then. In an hour we must go.”

On the evening of the same day, Lady Trevlyn and her daughter sat together in the octagon room at the Hall. Twilight was falling and candles were not yet brought, but a cheery fire blazed in the wide chimney, filling the apartment with a ruddy glow, turning Lillian’s bright hair to gold and lending a tinge of color to my lady’s pallid cheeks. The girl sat on a low lounging chair before the fire, her head on her hand, her eyes on the red embers, her thoughts–where? My lady lay on her couch, a little in the shadow, regarding her daughter with an anxious air, for over the young face a somber change had passed which filled her with disquiet.

“You are out of spirits, love,” she said at last, breaking the long silence, as Lillian gave an unconscious sigh and leaned wearily into the depths of her chair.

“Yes, Mamma, a little.”

“What is it? Are you ill?”

“No, Mamma; I think London gaiety is rather too much for me. I’m too young for it, as you often say, and I’ve found it out.”

“Then it is only weariness that makes you so pale and grave, and so bent on coming back here?”

Lillian was the soul of truth, and with a moment’s hesitation answered slowly, “Not that alone, Mamma. I’m worried about other things. Don’t ask me what, please.”

“But I must ask. Tell me, child, what things? Have you seen any one? Had letters, or been annoyed in any way about–anything?”

My lady spoke with sudden energy and rose on her arm, eyeing the girl with unmistakable suspicion and excitement.

“No, Mamma, it’s only a foolish trouble of my own,” answered Lillian, with a glance of surprise and a shamefaced look as the words reluctantly left her lips.

“Ah, a love trouble, nothing more? Thank God for that!” And my lady sank back as if a load was off her mind. “Tell me all, my darling; there is no confidante like a mother.”

“You are very kind, and perhaps you can cure my folly if I tell it, and yet I am ashamed,” murmured the girl. Then yielding to an irresistible impulse to ask help and sympathy, she added, in an almost inaudible tone, “I came away to escape from Paul.”

“Because he loves you, Lillian?” asked my lady, with a frown and a half smile.

“Because he does not love me, Mamma.” And the poor girl hid her burning cheeks in her hands, as if overwhelmed with maidenly shame at the implied confession of her own affection.

“My child, how is this? I cannot but be glad that he does not love you; yet it fills me with grief to see that this pains you. He is not a mate for you, Lillian. Remember this, and forget the transient regard that has sprung up from that early intimacy of yours.”