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“Why not?” breathed my lady in a faint whisper, as hope suddenly revived.

“Because I was grateful,” and for the first time Paul’s voice faltered. “I was a stranger, and you took me in. I never could forget that, nor tie many kindnesses bestowed upon the friendless boy. This afflicted me, even while I was acting a false part, and when I was away my heart failed me. But Helen gave me no peace; for my sake, she urged me to keep the vow made to that poor mother, and threatened to tell the story herself. Talbot’s benefaction left me no excuse for delaying longer, and I came to finish the hardest task I can ever undertake. I feared that a long dispute would follow any appeal to law, and meant to appeal first to you, but fate befriended me, and the last proof was found.”

“Found! Where?” cried Lady Trevlyn, springing up aghast.

“In Sir Richard’s coffin, where you hid it, not daring to destroy, yet fearing to keep it.”

“Who has betrayed me?” And her eye glanced wildly about the room, as if she feared to see some spectral accuser.

“Your own lips, my lady. Last night I came to speak of this. You lay asleep, and in some troubled dream spoke of the paper, safe in its writer’s keeping, and your strange treasure here, the key of which you guarded day and night. I divined the truth. Remembering Hester’s stories, I took the key from your helpless hand, found the paper on Sir Richard’s dead breast, and now demand that you confess your part in this tragedy.”

“I do, I do! I confess, I yield, I relinquish everything, and ask pity only for my child.”

Lady Trevlyn fell upon her knees before him, with a submissive gesture, but imploring eyes, for, amid the wreck of womanly pride and worldly fortune, the mother’s heart still clung to its idol.

“Who should pity her, if not I? God knows I would have spared her this blow if I could; but Helen would not keep silent, and I was driven to finish what I had begun. Tell Lillian this, and do not let her hate me.”

As Paul spoke, tenderly, eagerly, the curtain parted, and Lillian appeared, trembling with the excitement of that interview, but conscious of only one emotion as she threw herself into his arms, crying in a tone of passionate delight, “Brother! Brother! Now I may love you!”

Paul held her close, and for a moment forgot everything but the joy of that moment. Lillian spoke first, looking up through tears of tenderness, her little hand laid caressingly against his cheek, as she whispered with sudden bloom in her own, “Now I know why I loved you so well, and now I can see you marry Helen without breaking my heart. Oh, Paul, you are still mine, and I care for nothing else.”

“But, Lillian, I am not your brother.”

“Then, in heaven’s name, who are you?” she cried, tearing herself from his arms.

“Your lover, dear!”

“Who, then, is the heir?” demanded Lady Trevlyn, springing up, as Lillian turned to seek shelter with her mother.

“I am.”

Helen spoke, and Helen stood on the threshold of the door, with a hard, haughty look upon her beautiful face.

“You told your story badly, Paul,” she said, in a bitter tone. “You forgot me, forgot my affliction, my loneliness, my wrongs, and the natural desire of a child to clear her mother’s honor and claim her father’s name. I am Sir Richard’s eldest daughter. I can prove my birth, and I demand my right with his own words to sustain me.”

She paused, but no one spoke; and with a slight tremor in her proud voice, she added, “Paul has done the work; he shall have the reward. I only want my father’s name. Title and fortune are nothing to one like me. I coveted and claimed them that I might give them to you, Paul, my one friend, always, so tender and so true.”