Lord Lorriston looked at her in amaze; he thought the shock of the sad intelligence he had brought must have crazed her. He went to her, and Kenelm looked on with an aching heart. The time had come when the earl must know, and he knew what the knowledge would cost him. “Hermione,” said Lord Lorriston, quietly, “you are ill; you are bewildered; try to collect yourself. Your husband is dead, and surely no greater sorrow can come to any woman than the loss of one so good, so kind and true.” She drew back with a shudder from the kindly hand that would have caressed her. “Do not touch me, papa,” she said; “do not speak kindly to me--you have something yet to learn. I repeat my words; it is by the mercy of God that my husband is dead.” She repeated the words so solemnly and with such sincerity that Lord Lorriston was impressed with them. “Lady Alden,” said Mr. Eyrle, “it is not my place to interfere, but do you not think that Lord Lorriston has sorrow enough for one day?” “Let him hear the truth,” she replied. “God was merciful, papa, when He sent for my husband. He will never hear now the story of my guilt.” “What guilt, my poor child? Oh! Kenelm, she is cruelly distraught. What guilt can rest on one so sweet, so pure, so fair as she is?” He did not answer, and the earl turned caressingly to his child. “My darling,” he said; “my dearest Hermione, tell me what you mean. I do not understand. What cruel fancy have you of guilt--what simple folly have you magnified into crime?” Her white lips trembled convulsively; she tried to speak, but the power of speech had gone from her. “She cannot accuse herself,” said Mr. Eyrle. “She cannot tell him what she has done. It is a terrible task, and it will fall to me.” But he had mistaken her; there was strength enough in that delicate body for more than men accomplish. “When you have heard what I have to say, papa, you will turn from me in anger and never look at me again. Ronald’s death has troubled you. Would to Heaven I might die as he has done.” Then her courage suddenly failed her. She could not look at that kind, noble face--the face she revered and honored--with that story of guilt and shame. Her arms fell, her head drooped, and for a few minutes Kenelm Eyrle thought she would fall down dead. The little packet almost slipped from her nerveless grasp; that revived her. What could it contain that the mere contact with it should nerve and fortify her? She held it more tightly, with a clinging touch, as she rose once more and looked at her father. “Papa,” she said, “I am very guilty. I am terribly guilty. Mr. Eyrle will tell you of a discovery he has made. I confess to you that I am guilty of Clarice Alden’s death.” Lord Lorriston recoiled as though a pistol had been fired in his face, horror and dismay on every feature. He stood for some minutes, rooted to the ground, in silent horror that knew no words.