brother's murderer. Report had told him
what you were about to do."

"'To save me from it,' Paul," I exclaimed,
"what do you mean?"

"Is it possible, you misunderstand me?"
he said. "I mean that your duty and your
natural affection ought to strengthen you
to renounce Sir Edward. I can hardly
believe that you will find it a difficult task,'
he added, bitterly, "not to love your brother's
murderer."

"I cannot take back my love, Paul. I
never gave it for any definite reason; it
was sent like some blessed instinct, and now,
though I shudder to think what he is, I cannot
—cannot part from Edward. It may be
wicked and unnatural of me; but I cannot!"
Paul groaned aloud with horror. "Why did
I ever allow this engagement?" he
muttered to himself.

"Only think of the terrible remorse he
must have suffered, dear Paul," I pleaded,
trying to be calm.

"I cannot count, Helena, his so cruelly
deceiving you, as remorse. No: you must and
shall break off this engagement. His guilt
has cancelled any promise you can have
made him."

"I am stronger-hearted than I seem,"
I said: "and, although the whole world cry
out and condemn me, I will stand by him,
comforting him, and strengthening him to a
right repentance. I know you can tear and
keep me away now; but, when I am of age,
I will spring free from you and return to Sir
Edward."

I stood there firm and resolute. A deep
pain was at my heart, and terror struggled
with my love; but still it lived imperiously
strong, bound up, as it seemed, with my life.
Paul was silent.

"Good night," I said, and moved towards
the door.

He detained me by the arm.

"Hear!" he said, and his voice was
cruelly calm, "the determination to
which your obstinacy forces me; and from
which no earthly power shall make me
flinch. If you persist in your refusal to
break off with Sir Edward, I will make
known his guilt in every home around. No
child but shall point at him, and cry,
'Murderer!' no mother but shall pray that
her daughter may not live to love like you.
Do you think, Helena, that the people of
Lichendale will then choose him, his name
blood-stained and blackened, for their
representative? They will not—they shall not—
if my words have power to move them.
Murderer—deceiver as he is, what should it
matter to him who has lost heaven, if this
chance of earthly success escape him? I
place it in your power to prevent this: make
your choice."

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.

I STAGGERED up to my own room, and
threw myself on the bed. I lay sobbing in
the darkness till Paul heard me, and came
to me. I would not listen to him; but turned
away with angry dread. When he had left
me, I rose from my bed, went to the open
window, and, leaning out, strove to see
through black vacancy the Hall, where Sir
Edward was sleeping, ignorant of my wild
despair. The night-air cooled my burning
cheeks, and the peaceful silence, only broken
by the roar of the distant tkie, stilled my
passionate grief. I knelt down and prayed. I
prayed that my love might be unselfish, and
that I might, if necessary, be strong enough
to sacrifice my own happiness to his.

Slowly but surely the conviction stole upon
me that, to do right, I must give him up.
I tried to resist it. I grappled with it; but
in vain. It mastered me. The impetuosity of
his love had been trampled down by his
ambition. I did not love him the less for this.
It merely made me long that, when his ambition
was gratified, I might be taught how to
win back his first great love. Paul had acted
with cruel and unerring foresight, when
he had made the alternative of my
refusing to give up Sir Edward the almost
certain loss of his election, and he had rightly
guessed the conclusion I should work out
in my own mind. For I felt that Sir
Edward, triumphant in his election, and
carried by it into new scenes and society,
would soon forget me, and any pain resigning
me might at first cost him.

The dawn crept slowly on, and the great
white lilies, that I had planted out in the
garden to make it gay for Paul when I
should be gone, grew into distinctness, pointing
with their golden fingers towards
heaven. I still knelt by the window, praying
that I might not shrink from the sacrifice.

What Sir Edward answered, when Paul
wrote to him to tell him of my determination
to break off the engagement, I was never
told exactly; but I fancy his reply consisted
chiefly of thanks for the assurance, which I
had made Paul promise to give, that his
secret should not escape through us. I had
asked Paul to write, because I could not
have borne to do so without giving any
explanation, and the only true one would
have bound Sir Edward in honour to
hold to his engagement.

For several days after that terrible night
I lay in a death-like stupor. The merry
church-bells woke me from it.

"Is it my wedding-day to-day?" I asked,
as I sickened back into half-consciousness.

"Oh, Miss Helena!" said Jane, who had
watched with Paul by me, "I am right glad
to hear your voice again. It's no wedding.
The bells are ringing for Sir Edward—Sir
Edward, Miss."—She guessed rightly that
name would rouse me. "He's won the
election, and he's given the ringers a power
o' money."