ot to explain under the circumstances, but as it is to
you"--heavy emphasis, and a second affected silence. "You have heard,
perhaps, of Miss Maliphant's cousin in India?"

"No," says Joyce, after racking her brain in vain for some memory of the
cousin question. And, indeed, it would have been nothing short of a
miracle if she could have remembered anything about that apocryphal
person.

"You will understand that I speak to you in the strictest confidence,"
says Beauclerk, earnestly: "I wouldn't for anything you could offer me,
that it should get back to that poor girl's ears that I had been
discussing her and the most sacred feelings of her heart. Well, there is
a cousin, and she--you may have noticed that she and I were great
friends?"

"Yes," says Joyce, whose heart is beating now to suffocation. Oh! has
she wronged him? Does she still wrong him? Is this vile, suspicious
feeling within her one to be encouraged? Is all this story of his, this
simple explanation--false--false?

"I was, indeed, a sort of confidant of hers. Poor dear girl! it was a
relief to her to talk to somebody."

"There were others."

"But none here who knew him."

"You knew him then? Is his name Maliphant, too?" asks Joyce, ashamed of
her cross-examination, yet driven to it by some power beyond her
control.

"You mustn't ask me that," says Beauclerk playfully. "There are some
things I must keep even from you. Though you see I go very far to
satisfy your unjust suspicions of me. You can, however, guess a good
deal; you--saw her crying?"

"She was not crying," says Joyce slowly, a little puzzled. Miss
Maliphant had seemed at the moment in question well pleased.

"No! Not when you saw her? Ah! that must have been later then," with a
sigh, "you see now I am betraying more than I should. However, I can
depend upon your silence. It will be a small secret between you and me."

"And Miss Maliphant," says Joyce, coldly. "As for me, what is the
secret?"

"You haven't understood? Not really? Well, between you and me and the
wall," with delightful gaiety, "I think she gives a thought or two to
that cousin. I fancy," whispering, "she is even in--eh? you know."

"I don't," says Joyce slowly, who is now longing to believe in him, and
yet is held steadily backward by some strong feeling.

"I believe she is in love with him," says Beauclerk, still in a
mysterious whisper. "But it is a sore subject," with an expressive
frown. "Not best pleased whe