iews. Somehow Zillah had turned the conversation from. Guy in
person to the subject of her correspondence, and gradually told all
to Mrs. Hart. At this she looked deeply shocked and grieved.

"That girl," she said, "has some secret motive."

She spoke with a bitterness which Zillah had never before noticed in
her.

"Secret motive!" she repeated, in wonder; "what in the world do you
mean?"

"She is bad and deceitful," said Mrs. Hart, with energy; "you are
trusting your life and honor in the hands of a false friend."

Zillah started back and looked at Mrs. Hart in utter wonder.

"I know," said she at last, "that you don't like Hilda, but I feel
hurt when you use such language about her. She is my oldest and
dearest friend. She is my sister virtually. I have known her all my
life, and know her to her heart's core. She is incapable of any
dishonorable action, and she loves me like herself."

All Zillah's enthusiastic generosity was aroused in defending against
Mrs. Hart's charge a friend whom she so dearly loved.

Mrs. Hart sadly shook her head.

"My dear child," said she, "you know I would not hurt your feelings
for the world. I am sorry. I will say nothing more about _her_, since
you love her. But don't you feel that you are in a very false
position?"

"But what can I do? There is the difficulty about the handwriting.
And then it has gone on so long."

"Write to him at all hazards," said Mrs. Hart, "and tell him every
thing."

Zillah shook her head.

"Well, then--will you let me?"

"How can I? No; it must be done by myself--if it ever is done; and as
to writing it myself--I can not."

Such a thought was indeed abhorrent. After all it seemed to her in
itself nothing. She employed an amanuensis to compose those formal
notes which went in her name. And what fault was there? To Mrs. Hart,
whose whole life was bound up in Guy, it was impossible to look at
this matter except as to how it affected him. But Zillah had other
feelings--other memories. The very proposal to write a "confession"
fired her heart with stern indignation. At once all her resentment
was roused. Memory brought back again in vivid colors that hideous
mockery of a marriage over the death-bed of her father, with
reference to which, in spite of her changed feelings, she had never
ceased to think that it might have been avoided, and ought to have
been. Could she stoop to confess to this man any thing whatever?
Impossible!

Mrs. Hart did no