a secret
which she must conceal from the world as if it was a murder. She must
watch her words, her movements, her very glances, lest any sudden
utterance, or gesture, or blush should betray her. She would wake in
the night in terror, lest in some dream she might have called out some
word or name which had roused Mary Blanchet in the next room, and
betrayed her. She must meet Victor Heron, heaven knows how often, and
talk with him as a friend, and never let one gleam of the truth appear.
She must hear Lucy Money tell of her love, and be the _confidante_ of
her childlike emotions. Not often, perhaps, has a proud and sensitive
girl been tried so strangely. "I thought I hated men before," she kept
saying to herself. "I _do_ hate them now; and women and all. I hate him
most of all because I know that I so love him."

All this poor Minola kept saying or thinking to herself that morning as
she listlessly dressed. It is not too much to say that the very air
seemed changed for her. She had only one resolve to sustain her, but
that was at least as strong as her love, or as death--the resolve that,
come what would, she must keep her secret. Victor Heron believed himself
her friend, and desired to be nothing more. No human soul but her own
must know that her feeling to him was not the same. She would have known
the need of that resolve even if she had never been entrusted with poor
dear little Lucy's secret. But the more calmly she thought over that
little story the more she thought it likely that Lucy's dream might come
to be fulfilled.

The world--that is to say, the breakfast room and the Money family--had
to be faced. The family were as pleasant as ever, except Lucy, who
looked pale and troubled, and at whom her father looked once or twice
keenly, but without making any remark.

"I have had a letter from Lady Limpenny already this morning," Mr. Money
observed.

All professed an interest in the contents of the letter, even Theresa.

Mr. Money began to read:

"Thank you a thousand times, my dear Money----"

"We are very friendly, you see, Miss Grey," he said, breaking off. "But
it's not any peculiar friendship for me. She always calls men by their
names after the first interview."

"She generally addressed papa as 'my dear,' without any proper name
appended," said Lucy, who did not much like Lady Limpenny. "She always
likes the men of a family and always hates the women."

"Lucy, my dear," her mother pleaded, "ho