"And now," she continued, "the proudest woman in England, Lady Estelle Hereford, is here by stealth, asking that aid from a stranger which no one else can give to her." "Life is full of strange phases," said Earle. "But, Lady Hereford, what is it that you think I can do for you?" "I must tell you my secret first," she said, "before you can understand----" "Nay," he interrupted, generously, "I need not understand. If there is anything in the world that I can do for you, you have but to command me. I will be blind, deaf, mute, in your service. There is no need for me to understand." "You are very good--I feel your delicacy," she said. "You are loyal and noble; but I must tell you my secret, and my story is not a short one. I am tired; can I rest while I tell it to you?" In less time than it took her to ask the question, he had cleared away the creeping moss and trailing leaves from the fallen trunk of a tree. "It is a rude resting-place," he said. But Lady Estelle seemed grateful enough for it. She drew aside the rich silk and velvet. "Sit down by my side," she said, gently. He would have remained at a distance; but, with a little, graceful gesture, as of one used to command, she called him to her. "Sit down here," she said, and he had no resource but to obey her. Then again she was silent for some minutes; her face wore a dreamy, musing expression. "What a strange fate!" she said. "After keeping my secret for all these years--after guarding it jealously as my life--after sacrificing only Heaven knows what to it--I tell it to you, to you, young, loyal, true-hearted--you who love Doris! There is a terrible irony, after all, in fate!" CHAPTER XXXVI. LADY ESTELLE'S STORY. Looking at Lady Estelle, Earle saw that her face had grown very pale, and her hands trembled. It was so strange for him, on this beautiful, sunlit morning, to find himself seated by this pale, high-bred lady. The sun shone through the thick, green branches, and the light fell in slanting rays on the greensward; the birds sang gaily in the trees--the sweet, pitiless birds, who sing whether we are in sorrow or joy; the wild-flowers raised their beautiful heads, so fair and delicate, so fragile and sweet; there was no distress in nature. "Dear Lady Hereford," he said, "spare yourself. You do not like to tell me this story--why do it?" "I must," she said. "Never mind the pain for me; the pain has been greater in bearing it for twenty years than it is now in the telling of it. Looking at me, Earle Moray, can you imagine what I was twenty years ago?" "Yes," he said, gently, "I can imagine it. Time does not dim and line a face like yours. I can see you now as you were then."