ne," she said--"an act of vengeance that
cuts me off from the roll of noble women, and dishonors me."

Still keeping his hold of the white hand, he said:

"Tell me what it was--I can judge far better than you."

It seemed to her fevered fancy that the song of the waves died away, as
though they were listening; that the wind fell with a low sigh, and the
birds ceased their song--a silence that was almost terrible fell around
her--the blue sky seemed nearer to her.

"Speak to me, Vane!" she cried; "I am frightened!"

He drew her nearer to him.

"It is only fancy, my darling. When one has anything weighty to say, it
seems as though earth and sky were listening. Look at me, think of me,
and tell me all."

She could never remember how she began her story--how she told him the
whole history of her life--of the happy years spent with her father in
the Rue d'Orme, when she learned to love art and nature, when she
learned to love truth for its own sake, and was brought up amid those
kindly, simple-hearted artist friends, with such bitter scorn, such
utter contempt of all conventionalities--of her keen and passionate
sorrow when her father died, and Sir Oswald took her home to Darrell
Court, telling her that her past life was at an end forever, and that
even the name she had inherited from her father must be changed for the
name of her race--how after a time she had grown to love her home with a
keen, passionate love, born of pride in her race and in her name--of the
fierce battle that raged always between her stern, uncompromising truth
and the worldly polish Sir Oswald would have had her acquire.

She concealed nothing from him, telling him of her faults as well as her
trials. She gave him the whole history of Aubrey Langton's wooing, and
her contemptuous rejection of his suit.

"I was so proud, Vane," she said, humbly. "Heaven was sure to punish me.
I surrounded myself, as it were, with a barrier of pride, scorn, and
contempt, and my pride has been brought low."

She told him of Sir Oswald's anger at her refusal to marry Aubrey, of
her uncle's threat that he would marry and disinherit her, of her
scornful disbelief--there was no incident forgotten; and then she came
to the evening when Sir Oswald had opened the box to take out the
diamond ring, and had spoken before them all of the roll of bank-notes
placed there.

"That night, Vane," she said, "there was a strange unrest upon me. I
could not sleep. I have had the