d she bitterly
lamented the chain of events by which she had been placed in such a
position. It was humiliating and galling. But could she not yet
escape? Might she not even now write in her own name explaining all?
No. It could not be--not now, for what would be the reception of such
explanations, coming as they would with news of his father's illness!
Would he treat them with any consideration whatever? Would not his
anxiety about his father lead him to regard them with an impatient
disdain? But perhaps, on the other hand, he might feel softened and
accept her explanation readily, without giving any though to the
strange deceit which had been practiced for so long a time. This gave
her a gleam of hope; but in her perplexity she could not decide, so
she sought counsel from Hilda as usual. Had Mrs. Hart being in the
possession of her usual faculties she might possibly have asked her
advice also; but, as it was, Hilda was the only one to whom she could
turn.

Hilda listened to her with that sweet smile, and that loving and
patient consideration, which she always gave to Zillah's confidences
and appeals.

"Darling," said she, after a long and thoughtful silence, "I
understand fully the perplexity which you feel. In fact, this letter
_ought_ to come from you, and from you only. I'm extremely sorry that
I ever began this. I'm sure I did it from the _very best_ motives.
Who could ever have dreamed that it would become so embarrassing? And
now I don't know what to do--that is, not just now."

"Do you think he would be angry at the deceit?"

"Do you yourself think so?" asked Hilda in reply.

[Illustration: Hilda Writes To Guy Molyneux.]

"Why, that is what I am afraid of; but then--isn't it possible that
he might be--softened, you know--by anxiety?"

"People don't get softened by anxiety. They get impatient, angry with
the world and with Providence. But the best way to judge is to put
yourself in his situation. Suppose you were in India, and a letter
was written to you by your wife--or your husband, I suppose I should
say--telling you that your father was extremely ill, and that he
himself had been deceiving you for some years. The writing would be
strange--quite unfamiliar; the story would be almost incredible; you
wouldn't know what to think. You'd be deeply anxious, and yet half
believe that some one was practicing a cruel jest on you. For my
part, if I had an explanation to make I would wait for a time of
pro