looked upon that fact as an
excuse; for a man who has come to the years I had should hold his
feelings under his own control. Yes; I missed that opportunity, and the
chance went by for life."

"For life?" repeated Lucy, with streaming eyes. It was too terribly real
a moment for any attempt at concealment. A little reticence, in her
maiden modesty; but of concealment, none.

"I am a poor man now, Lucy," he explained; "worse than without
prospects, if you knew all. And I do not know why you should not know
all," he added after a pause: "I am in debt. Such a man cannot marry."

The words were spoken quietly, temperately; their tone proving how
hopeless could be any appeal against them, whether from him, from her,
or from without. It was perfectly true: Lionel Verner's position placed
him beyond the reach of social ties.

Little more was said. It was a topic which Lucy could not urge or
gainsay; and Lionel did not see fit to continue it. He may have felt
that it was dangerous ground, even for the man of honour that he strove
to be. He held out his hand to Lucy.

"Will you forgive me?" he softly whispered.

Her sobs choked her. She strove to speak, as she crept closer to him,
and put out her hands in answer; but the words would not come. She
lifted her face to glance at his.

"Not a night passes but I pray God to forgive me," he whispered, his
voice trembling with emotion, as he pressed her hands between his, "to
forgive the sorrow I have brought upon you. Oh, Lucy! forgive--forgive
me!"

"Yes, yes," was all her answer, her sobs impeding her utterance, her
tears blinding her. Lionel kept the hands strained to him; he looked
down on the upturned face, and read its love there; he kept his own
bent, with its mingled expression of tenderness and pain; but he did not
take from it a single caress. What right had he? Verily, if he had not
shown control over himself once in his life, he was showing it now.

He released one of his hands and laid it gently upon her head for a
minute, his lips moving silently. Then he let her go. It was over.

She sat down on the low stool again on the opposite side the hearth, and
buried her face and her anguish. Lionel buried _his_ face, his elbow on
the mantel-piece, his hand uplifted. He never looked at her again, or
spoke; she never raised her head; and when the company began to arrive,
and came in, the silence was still unbroken.

And, as they talked and laughed that night, fulfilli