I was full of thought and
anxiety, and I supposed she too might feel deeply about Robert.

"Aunt Marian,--may I call you so?" said she softly, at length looking
up.

"Why not, Percy? you always do."

"Only, lately, it has seemed to me you were different."

She crossed the room and sat down on a _tabouret_ so low that she was at
my feet, and took my hand with a humble sweetness that would have
touched any heart less hard than mine.

"I used to love to hear _him_ call you so!" she went on, caressing my
hand, which I did not withdraw, though I should have liked well to do
so, for I did not at all like this attitude we had assumed of penitent
and confessor. "I can't expect you to be just to me, dear Auntie,
because you don't know. But oh! do believe! I never guessed Robert's
feelings for me. How could I think of it,--and I a married woman!"

"Married! Percy!" said I, astonished at her agitation and the tears that
flowed down her pale face like rain.

"Yes," she answered in a voice so low that I could scarcely hear it.

"Not a widow, Percy Lunt! What do you mean?"

"I think--I believe--my husband is living. He was so a few months ago.
But I cannot tell you any more without papa's permission. O, I have
suffered so much! You would pity me if you knew all. But I felt as if I
must tell you this: and then--you would understand how I might have
been, as I was, so wholly preoccupied with my own feelings and interests
as never to guess that Robert's was anything but the regard of a friend.
And, indeed," she added with a sorrowful smile, "I feel so much older
than Robert.--I have gone through so much, that I feel ten years older
than he is. You will believe me, Aunt Marian, and forgive me?"

"It is easy to forgive, poor child!" I said, mingling my tears with
hers. "I have been cruel and hard-hearted to you. But I felt only for
poor Robert, and how could I guess?"

"You couldn't,--and that is why I felt that I must tell you."

"I cannot ask you anything further,--it is very strange."

While Percy kept strong rein on her feelings, her impassive manner had
deceived me. Now that my sympathy with her made me more keenly alive to
her distress, I saw the deep pain in her pale face, and the unnatural
look of grief in one so young. She tied on her hat in her old, hopeless
way, and the ivory smoothness of her face spoke of self-centred and
silent suffering.

"If papa is willing, I shall come to-morrow, and tell you part, at
le