“Stop!” he cried. “Oh, my God, this is too much for human hearts to bear! Elaine, come and sit beside me; let me place my arms about you--pillow your head upon my shoulder, while I tell you all that has happened to me since that day when you drove me forth! It may be the last time, Elaine; it may be the last time that we shall meet on earth, and I want to carry it through life and to the grave a pleasant memory. Do not forget what we have been to each other--what we are to each other still! When you know all you will not blame me, and then----” He covered his eyes with his hands, and she was instantly beside him. “If I am sinning, Heaven forgive me. Surely the sin will be expiated by the martyrdom that is mine!” Bit by bit, he told his wonderful story--the story of his utter oblivion--the story of his awakening--of his brotherly love for the sweet girl whom he called wife--of his utter despair. “But my duty is clear, Elaine; I could never shut my eyes to that, although I should be sorely tempted were Theresa other than she is.” “I feel that I must love her,” Lady Elaine replied. “Love her because she loves you, Harold! You see what my pride--my silly pride--has done for us, but in some way all the evil that has ever befallen me is attributable to your cousin--to Margaret Nugent. She it was who professed to know your moods and to whom I listened blindly for advice. This is no palliation for the fault--for the folly I committed; but I cannot help thinking that she had some ulterior motive in parting us--that she perhaps cared for you herself.” He was thoughtful for a little while, and then remarked, sternly: “You cannot both be wrong. Poor Theresa distrusts Margaret.” “It is fatal to one’s happiness or even peace to permit some people to enter into the secrets of their lives,” continued Lady Elaine, “and I have thought lately that if I had obeyed the wishes of Colonel Greyson, and permitted him to carry my letter of recall--my complete surrender--to you, how different things might have been.” “Why did you not send that letter, Elaine?” he said, sadly. “Ah, you have forgotten, Harold. I sent it by Margaret Nugent, and she told me that you scoffed at it, and cast it to the winds.” “I never received that letter, darling,” he replied, starting up, a bitter imprecation on his lips against his false cousin. “I never received that letter--I swear it! At last I believe that light is breaking upon me! The night that we first met, Colonel Greyson said that Margaret would be jealous, and I laughed at what I considered the absurdity of the idea. And the stories of your engagement to Rivington? Ah, what a blind fool I have been!” He heard of the terms of the late earl’s will with wonderment and regret. “I cannot understand it, if your father knew nothing of Rivington’s private character,” he said, “or he may have been blinded to everything in his obstinacy and determination to have his own way.”