or more, that Millie and Erle Lyneward sat
together. He had never talked to her much,
and she—her little heart was too full!

At last Millie said, "That man is gone
now, and I must go to my sister."

Millie said "my sister," with a strange
pride in the words. She could only say
them speaking of one person in the wide
world. She felt sure that the lawyer was gone,
for she had heard the bustle of departure,
some time since, and wondered, uneasily,
why Hildred did not come in. But when
she rose, Mr. Lyneward drew her back. He
did not choose to spare her yet; there would
be plenty of time for sisters and explanations
to-morrow, he said.

Neither of them had heard the door softly
opened a little while before; nor seen a tall
figure stand at it a moment; a bewildered
face grow conscious of misery. Neither could
be conscious of the agony of a passionate
heart, that believed itself breaking.

Hildred had come to the door; and, seeing
no bright light stream from underneath it,
had opened it very gently, expecting to find
Millie asleep. What had she seen so horrible
in that room?

The gloomy afternoon had wildened into a
weird, wet night; a few moments before, she
had been hospitably sorry to allow Mr. Blankardt
to go out into it, well defended as he was;
now she rushed out with uncovered head, up
the steep garden, up on to the bleak bare
top of the hill. It was blackly dark. The
darkness seemed to touch her on all sides, to
press round her, to crush against her strained
eyeballs, to madden her She shrieked—no
one could hear—and she shrieked out that
Erle Lyneward was a traitor. She had almost
cursed Millie's innocent sweet face.

She had thrown herself on the ground.
After lying there half-stupefied awhile, she
rose; the proud, strong heart called up all
its strength. She even smiled to herself,
saying that she could bear it—ay, and more
a thousand times.

There was one bitter consolation: her
pride was wounded in nowise. She was not
deserted; this man had never known that
she loved him. She had treated him like a
dog when he had dared speak to her of love,
as she did all who so spoke in that past that
seemed many a life-time ago; for her wild
heart had been driven to desperation by its
early enlightenment of the world's hollowness.
She had spurned all men. He, like
the rest, she thought then, wooed the heiress,
Hildred Vynern; not the woman, who had a
heart richer than much fine gold.

It was long months since he had written
her that letter— his indignantly passionate
appeal— the last, as he told her, he would ever
make. It had never been answered. Who
was guilty, then? No trust had been betrayed,
if she had placed none. Ay! but
those happy weeks she had spent with
Millie! What had she not learned to believe?
What hopes had she cherished?
What wild way her love had made!

Some one must be deeply guilty, or
whence this racking misery? Then she
thought of the false old woman who had
kept that letter back from her so long—sent
it at last in mockery, to show that she no
longer cared if niece Hildred hanged herself,
or married a Lyneward—one of a race she
hated. As Hildred thought, she put up her
two strong hands, and with them clasped her
brow tightly, as if she felt that, indeed, the
horrible pain there might split it. She sat a
long time in that posture, the wind raving
round her, driving the rain against her in sheets.

Upon the stormy troubled sea of her
thoughts Millie's face soon shone down, surrounded
by a halo; no sin, no sorrow, must
tarnish the effulgence of that encircling radiance.

For awhile this was the one distinct
thought—all else was surging pain and scorn
—scorn, infinite scorn, of a man who could
love here and love there (if, indeed, he had
ever loved her)— for whom one love, even if
unreturned, could not suffice for a life-time—
who, disappointed in his first few feeble
attempts to win a response to his passion,
turned to love elsewhere, instead of either
putting love out of his life, or consecrating
and concentrating all power he had to the
gaining of what he had first wanted. One of
these two things Hildred felt she would have
done had she been such a man as she was
woman.

After all, was it possible that Erle Lyneward
should love Millie Grey? Millie was
fair, sweet and good; but could a man whose
heart and mind had so vast an emptiness to
be filled, rest satisfied with shrining there the
little child Millie? No! If not, what
danger was there for Millie from her? Hildred
was conscious of power—of power over
Erle Lyneward such as no one else had ever
possessed. What should she do?—how shield
Millie? She had judged her sister's character
well enough to feel sure that if ever
the love that had been between Hildred and
Erle Lyneward came to her knowledge, she—
child as she was—was capable of resolutely
sacrificing herself to make two she loved beyond
all the world happy. Millie must discover
nothing. There was safety for Millie,
as well as consolation for Hildred, in the one
thing: Erle Lyneward did not suspect that
proud Hildred Vynern had ever loved him.
This knowledge must be kept from him for
ever. What a weary, dreary, heart-sickening
future!

Hildred retraced her way with difficulty;
gained her own room, and locked her door,
in safety. She had but just escaped meeting
Mr. Lyneward. She shrunk back, shrouded
in darkness, had almost felt him touch her,
as he went away down the garden. Millie
now would come seeking for her. What
must she do?