.

Her secret was never known. Lord Earle and Lionel Dacre kept it
faithfully. No allusion to it ever crossed their lips. To Lord
Airlie, while he lived, the memory of the girl he had loved so well was
pure and untarnished as the falling snow. Not even to her mother was
the story told. Dora believed, as did every one else, that Beatrice
had fallen accidentally into the lake.

When Lillian grew stronger--better able to bear the mention of her
sister's name--Lord Earle went to her room one day, and, gently enough,
tried to win her to speak to him of what she knew.

She told him all--of her sister's sorrow, remorse, and tears; her
longing to be free from the wretched snare in which she was caught; how
she pleaded with her to interfere. She told him of her short interview
with the unhappy man, and its sad consequences for her.

Then the subject dropped forever. Lord Earle said nothing to her of
Lionel, thinking it would be better for the young lover to plead his
own cause.

One morning, when she was able to rise and sit up for a time, Lionel
asked permission to see her. Lady Dora, who knew nothing of what had
passed between them, unhesitatingly consented.

She was alarmed when, as he entered the room, she saw her daughter's
gentle face grow deathly pale.

"I have done wrong," she said. "Lillian is not strong enough to see
visitors yet."

"Dear Lady Dora," explained Lionel, taking her hand, "I love Lillian;
and she loved me before I was so unhappy as to offend her. I have come
to beg her pardon. Will you trust her with me for a few minutes?"

Lady Dora assented, and went away, leaving them together.

"Lillian," said Lionel, "I do not know in what words to beg your
forgiveness. I am ashamed and humbled. I know your sister's story,
and all that you did to save her. When one was to be sacrificed, you
were the victim. Can you ever forgive me?"

"I forgive you freely," she gently answered. "I have been in the
Valley of the Shadow of Death, and all human resentment and unkindness
seem as nothing to me."

"And may I be to you as I was before?" he asked.

"That is another question," she said. "I can not answer it now. You
did not trust me, Lionel."

Those were the only words of reproach she ever uttered to him. He did
not annoy her with protestation; he trusted that time would do for him
what he saw just then he could not do for himself.

He sat down upon the couch by her side, and began to speak