hould be sent to London for her trousseau,
and the list must be made out at once.

She sat calmly in Lady Helena's room, writing in obedience to her
words, thinking all the time how she should tell Lillian, how best make
her understand the deadly error committed, yet save herself as much as
she could. Lady Earle talked of laces and embroidery, of morning
dresses and jewels, while Beatrice went over in her mind every word of
her confession.

"That will do," said Lady Earle, with a smile; "I have been very
explicit, but I fear it has been in vain. Have you heard anything I
have said, Beatrice?"

She blushed, and looked so confused that Lady Helena said, laughingly:

"You may go--do not be ashamed. Many years ago I was just as much in
love myself, and just as unable to think of anything else as you are
now."

There was some difficulty in finding Lillian; she was discovered at
last in the library, looking over some fine old engravings with Mr.
Dacre. He looked up hastily when Beatrice asked her sister to spare
her half an hour.

"Do not go, Lily," he said, jestingly; "it is only some nonsense about
wedding dresses. Let us finish this folio."

But Beatrice had no gay repartee for him. She looked grave, although
she tried to force a smile.

"I can not understand that girl," he said to himself, as the library
door closed behind the two sisters. "I could almost fancy that
something was distressing her."

"Lily," said Beatrice, "I want you very much. I am sorry to take you
from Lionel; you like being with him, I think."

The fair face of her sister flushed warmly.

"But I want you, dear," said Beatrice. "Oh, Lily, I am in bitter
trouble! No one can help me but you."

They went together into the little boudoir Beatrice called her own.
She placed her sister in the easy lounging chair drawn near the window,
and then half knelt, half sat at her feet.

"I am in such trouble, Lily!" she cried. "Think how great it is when I
know not how to tell you."

The sweet, gentle eyes looked wonderingly into her own. Beatrice
clasped her sister's hands.

"You must not judge me harshly," she said, "I am not good like you,
Lily; I never could be patient and gentle like you. Do you remember,
long ago, at Knutsford, how I found you one morning upon the cliffs,
and told you that I hated my life? I did hate it, Lillian," she
continued. "You can never tell how much; its quiet monotony was
killing me. I have done wron