‘Not for this wide world,’ she wrote, answering Gerald Goring’s question as directly as he had asked it, ‘not to be completely and unspeakably happy would I rob my sister of her happiness; not if it could be done without making me a monster of ingratitude, the most treacherous and despicable of women. All you and I have to do is to forget our folly of last night, and to be true, each of us, to the promises we have made. You would be, indeed, a loser, condemned to pay a life-long penalty for your foolishness, if you could barter such a flower as Madoline for such a weed as me. Be true to her, and you will find your reward in that truth. Do you know how good she is; how priceless in her purity and love; and could you let her go for my sake—for a creature who is compounded of faults and inconsistencies, caprices, self-will; a creature with no more soul than Undine? Remember how long she has loved you; think how much she is above you in the beauty of her character; how fitted she is to make your home happy, your life nobler and better than it could ever be without her. Why, if, in some moment of madness, you were to surrender her love, your life to come would be one long regret for having lost her. Forget, as I shall forget; be true, as I will be true, heaven helping me; and let me write myself, without a blush, in this my first, and, perhaps, my last letter to you,—Your Sister, DAPHNE.’ Her eyes were streaming with tears as she wrote. Every word came from her heart. There was no duplicity of thought, no lurking hope that Gerald might refuse to be ruled by her. She wrote to him faithfully, honestly, resolutely, her heart and mind exalted by her intense love of her sister. And when the letter was sealed and given to the chambermaid—who must have wondered a little at this outbreak of letter-writing before breakfast as a new development in the British tourist—she stole softly to the door leading into Madoline’s room and opened it as noiselessly as she could. Lina was still asleep, the calm beautiful face turned towards the sunlight, the long dark lashes dropping on the oval cheek, the lips faintly parted. Daphne crept to the bed-side and sat down beside her sister’s pillow. Lina awoke and looked up at her. ‘My pet, have you been here long? Is it late?’ she asked. ‘Late for you, love. About half-past seven. I have only this moment come in.’ ‘How white and haggard you look!’ said Lina anxiously. ‘Have you had a bad night?’ ‘I did not sleep particularly well. I seldom can in a strange place.’ ‘Daphne, I am afraid you are ill—or unhappy. There was something in your manner last night that alarmed me.’ ‘I am not ill: and I have not felt so happy for a long time as I feel this morning.’ ‘Why, dearest?’ ‘Because I have been making good resolutions, and I mean to act upon them.’ ‘Would it be too much to ask what they are?’