ger.

She gave the letter to her sister. Lillian's heart ached as she noted
the trembling hands and quivering lips.

"I have not asked you to keep my secret, Lily," said Beatrice,
sorrowfully.

"There is no need," was the simple reply.

* * * * *

Sir Harry and Lady Laurence dined that day at Earlescourt, and it was
nearly nine before the gentlemen, who did not sit long over their wine,
came into the drawing room. The evening was somewhat chilly; a bright
fire burned in the grate, and the lamps were lighted. Sir Harry sat
down to his favorite game of chess with Lady Helena; Lord Earle
challenged Lady Laurence to a game at ecarte. The young people were
left to themselves.

"In twenty years' time," said Lionel to Lillian, "we may seek refuge in
cards; at present music and moonlight are preferable, Lily. You never
sing to me; come to the piano now."

But she remembered the dreaded hour was drawing near.

"Pray excuse me," she begged; "I will sing for you presently."

He looked surprised; it was the first time she had ever refused him a
favor.

"Shall we finish the folio of engravings?" he asked.

Knowing that, when once she was seated by his side, it would be
impossible to get away, she again declined; but this time the fair face
flushed, and the sweet eyes drooped.

"How guilty you look," he said. "Is there any mystery on hand? Are you
tired of me? Or is there to be another important consultation over the
wedding dresses?"

"I have something to attend to," she replied, evasively. "Get the
folio ready--I shall not be long."

Beatrice, who had listened to the brief dialogue in feverish suspense,
now came to the rescue, asking Lionel to give them the benefit of his
clear, ringing tenor in a trio of Mendelssohn's.

"My 'clear, ringing tenor' is quite at your service," he said with a
smile. "Lily is very unkind to me tonight."

They went to the piano, where Lord Airlie awaited them; and Lillian,
looking at her small, jeweled watch--Lord Earle's present--saw that it
wanted three minutes to nine.

She at once quitted the room, unobserved, as she thought; but Lionel
saw her go.

No words can tell how distasteful and repugnant was the task she had
undertaken. She would have suffered anything almost to have evaded it.
She, who never had a secret; she, whose every word and action were open
as the day; she, who shrank from all deceit and untruth as from a
deadly plague, to