"Oh, Marie, Marie," sobbed Ruth, "pray, pray don't speak of yourself like that! I have tried so hard to love Clotilde, but she has been cruel to me, I never could; but you--you have always been kind, and I do love you. You always took my part." "So that I might be a tyrant to you myself, you foolish child," said Marie bitterly. "Oh, Ruth, Ruth, Ruth! if we had had a mother by our side I should have been a different woman." "There is something wrong, Marie; I can see it in your face." And she hurriedly began to dress. Then, and then only, did Marie give way to her feelings, sobbing with hysterical rage till Ruth was alarmed, and clung to her, begging her to be calm. By degrees the whole bitter story came out, Marie keeping nothing back, but pouring forth the tale of her wrong with all an injured woman's passionate jealousy and despair. She did not notice how by degrees, as she went on, Ruth had grown white as ashes, and had gradually loosened her arms from round her, edging slowly away till she stood there with her arms hanging listlessly at her side, and in this attitude she listened to the bitter, passionate declarations of her cousin. "I wish I was dead!" cried Marie. "I thought him so true, and manly, and honest, and yet he could be guilty of so cruel, so foul a wrong; and oh, Ruth, Ruth! I loved with all my heart--loved him as I hate and despise him now." She started and looked wonderingly at her cousin, and asked herself whether this was the gentle, yielding girl who had been her and her sister's butt and victim these many years, for as she finished Ruth's ashy face became suffused with anger. "It is false! It is a cruel lie!" "It is true, you foolish child!" retorted Marie angrily. "I tell you it is false!" cried Ruth. "Captain Glen is too true and noble to be so wicked as you say. I will not believe it. I do not care; I would not believe it unless he stood here and owned to it himself. I know it is cruel and wicked to say so, but it is Clotilde who is to blame. Marcus Glen loves you, and he would not do you such a wrong." "You are too young and innocent, Ruth," said Marie coldly. "Good-night. It is only the wakening from another dream." Volume 3, Chapter V. THE REWARD OF PERSEVERANCE. Paul Montaigne made Ruth shudder with a look, and told her aunts that they had only to wait, for Lord Henry would again propose. He was right. "If your aunts did not object, Marie, it is a delicious evening for a stroll round the Gardens," said Lord Henry Moorpark, as they stood in the drawing-room looking at the black shadow cast by the full moon across the little court where the jets of water gurgled and plashed, and the few gold-fish sailed round and round, gaping and staring with their protuberant eyes like so many Elbrahams running their mill-horse round in the search for wealth. "I don't think I should object, sister, if Marie would like to go," said the Honourable Philippa.