drew nearer to her--a great exultation in his soul. This girl
was made of sterner stuff than Lucy West. Laurence Thorndyke's hour had
come.

"Am I Laurence Thorndyke's friend or enemy? His enemy, Miss Bourdon--his
bitterest enemy on earth for the last five years."

"I thought so. I don't know why, but I thought so. Mr. Liston, what has
he done to you?"

"Blighted and darkened my life, as he has blighted and darkened yours.
He was hardly one-and-twenty then, but the devil was uppermost in him
from his cradle. _Her_ name was Lucy West, I had known her from
babyhood, was almost double her age, but when I asked her to marry me
she consented. I loved her well, she knew that I could take her to the
city to live, that was the desire of her heart. I know now she never
cared for me, but they were poor and pinched at home, and she was vain
of her rose-and-milk skin, of her bright eyes and sparkling teeth.

"I was old, and small, and plain, but I could give her silk dresses and
a house in town, a servant to wait upon her, and she was ready to marry
me. I was then what I am now, Mr. Darcy's land steward, agent,
confidential valet, all in one. Young Mr. Laurence came home from
Harvard for his vacation; and full of admiration for this bright young
beauty, proud and fond beyond all telling of her, I took him down with
me to show him the charming little wife I was going to marry. No thought
of distrusting either ever entered my mind, in my way I loved and
admired both, with my whole heart. Miss Bourdon, you know this story
before I tell it, one of the oldest stories the world has to tell.

"We remained a fortnight. Then I had to go back to New York. It was
August, and we were to be married in October. He returned with me,
stayed a week with his adopted uncle, then returned to Boston, so he
said. One week later, while I was busily furnishing the pretty house I
had hired for my little Lucy, came a letter from Lucy's mother. I see at
this moment, Mrs. Laurence, the sunny, busy street at which I sat
stupidly staring, for hours after I read that letter. I hear the shouts
of the children at play, the hot, white quiver of the blazing August
noon-day.

"Lucy had gone, run away from home with a young man, nobody knew who for
certain, but everybody thought with the young gentleman I had brought
there, Mr. Thorndyke. I had trusted her, Mrs. Laurence, as I tell you I
had loved and trusted them both entirely. I sat there stupefied, I need
no