"I am not crying. I have no cause to cry," I resentfully answered, vexed beyond everything. "I thought of something as I came upstairs, which brought the tears into my eyes: we often laugh until we cry, you know." "Oh, indeed," said Mrs. Penn, "perhaps yours are tears of joy?" "I should be so very much obliged if you could put off what you wish to say until the morning. You don't know how sleepy I am." "I know that you can tell a parcel of fibs, you wicked child," she returned, in a fond accent. "Anne,—I shall call you so to-night,—I have come to talk to you; and talk I shall. I want to save you." "Save me from what?" "From the—what shall I call it?—the machinations of Harry Chandos." "Mr. Chandos is working no machinations against me." "I know that he _is_. He has been making you a declaration of love." The tell-tale crimson lighted up my face. Mrs. Penn continued, taking my hand. "I felt uneasy, and made my scissors an excuse for coming to the oak-parlour. You should not have heard it from him. I warned you that any attachment between you and Mr. Chandos could not end happily; you cannot marry him!" My nerves were completely unstrung, and I burst into tears; I could play a false part no longer. It was bitter enough to hear her confirm his own words. Mrs. Penn gently stroked my hair. "Child, do you know why I thus interfere between you and Mr. Chandos? I will tell you. A few years ago I became attached to a young girl of eighteen—a connexion of mine. She was under my charge and under my eye; her name, Lottie Penn! A stranger came, fascinating as Mr. Chandos; and I, believing him to be upright and honourable, exercised little caution. He gained her love, just as Mr. Chandos is gaining yours—— "Mrs. Penn!" "Hush! do you think I am blind? He gained the love of Lottie; and, when marriage came to be spoken of as a natural sequence, we found out that we had been entertaining a Jesuit in disguise. He could not marry." "A Jesuit?" "I am speaking metaphorically. The man called himself a Protestant, if he called himself anything. I heard him say he was a Christian. Very Christian work it was of him to gain Lottie's heart, and then confess that he had gained it for no end. Lottie died. The blow was too sharp for her. She was a timid, gentle flower, and could not stand the rough blast. Anne, believe me, there is no fate so cruel in the whole catalogue of the world's troubles as that of misplaced love." "Why could he not marry?" I asked, growing interested in the tale. "Ah! why, indeed!" she answered, curling her lips with mockery: "why cannot Harry Chandos? The cases are somewhat parallel. It is the remembrance of Lottie which causes me to feel this interest in you, for you put me very much in mind of her, and I must try to save you."