“Cousin,” Alice said, humbly, “will you listen to me—will you let me speak with you alone for a little while?” Kate stood irresolute for a moment, and then seeing her nurse approaching gave the baby to her, and telling Charley to be a good boy, led the way to their little cabin. Kate was very sore with their visitor—sore because she remembered the cold, proud face with which she had passed Frank in Knightsbridge—sore because she had sent him money when he was in poverty. With these thoughts, Kate led the way with an air which might have befitted her had she been a queen and Miss Heathcote her bond slave. When they entered the cabin Kate said,— “Now, Miss Heathcote, I am willing of course to listen to you; but, I tell you, I am sorry you have come. We have done with England. We have learned the true value of our friends, and we are content to be all in all to each other.” “You have one friend still in whom you trust, I think,” Alice said; “Arthur Prescott is here with my uncle.” “Yes,” Kate said, “he is a friend—yes, Frank trusts him, and so do I.” Alice hesitated, and then laying aside her previously quiet tone, she said, “Cousin Kate, Frank’s wife, listen to me! Do you know I love Frank as a brother; do you know—I can humble myself to you—that I once loved him more? Do you know, that I once so loved him that I could have gone through even what you have gone through to know that he loved me? I learned from his own lips that it was not to be, that he loved me as a sister, but nothing more. I accepted the fact, Kate, I fought against my love, and I learned to look at him only as a dear brother. Do you think I did not suffer? What have your sufferings been to what mine then were? You have borne disappointment, neglect, want, but you have had Frank always with you. You have known that he prized you beyond all beside. But I conquered myself; I heard that you had won his heart, and upon the day of his marriage I could have stood beside the altar and could have listened to his vows to you without a pang, and could have loved you as a sister for his sake. Then, Kate, I heard he was—oh, forgive me for saying so now! forgive me for believing it!—that he was wicked; that he had done a dishonourable, wicked action. You can smile proudly at the accusation, you are his wife, I was only his sister; I really never believed it in my heart, and yet my uncle told me that doubt was impossible. Still I hoped—hoped against hope—that it was not so. Frank came back, and no letter came in answer to my uncle’s reproach to him. Yes,” she said, in answer to Kate’s movement; “we know now that he wrote, but my uncle never got it, it was sent back by other hands. I will tell you how presently,—and then, Kate, all hope died out; we travelled abroad, and tried hard to forget the past. Now, only since you sailed from London we have learned the truth, have learned how unjustly and cruelly we have doubted Frank. Oh, cousin, make allowance for me! I