"No--not that;" he struck the letter he still held, impatiently, with a finger of the other hand. "I told you once, I would never ask you to believe me again as you did then. I don't ask you to act as if you believed, now. But, Helen, you will know one day before we die, whether I have been sinned against or sinning in this thing; I feel sure of it, or--I should doubt the justice of God." The soft, sad voice quite broke down the calmness it had cost Helen so much to assume; she could not listen longer, and broke in with all her own impetuosity-- "Ah, Alan! don't ask it; it is not right of you. You know I _must_ believe whatever you tell me, and I dare not--do you hear--I dare not, now. It is too late. I have promised--" and she stopped, shivering. Wyverne's look was keen and searching; but it was not at _her_ that his brows were bent. He took the little trembling hand in his own, and tried to quiet the leaping pulses, and his tones were more soothing than ever. "I know it all, darling; I know how bravely you have tried to keep your faith with me; I shall thank you for it to my life's end, not the less because neither you nor I were strong enough to fight against fate, and--Aunt Mildred. I cannot blame her: if I could, _you_ should not hear me. She was right to make you promise before you came here. It was unconditionally, of course?" The girl's cheek flushed painfully. "There was a condition," she murmured under her breath; "but I hardly dare. Yes; I dare say anything--to you. Mamma sent for me when that letter came, or I should never have heard of it. She did not say how _she_ knew. You cannot think how determined she is. I _was_ angry at first; but when I saw how hard she was, I was frightened; and, Alan, indeed, indeed I did all I could to soften her. At last she said that she would not insist on my giving you up, if--if you would show me that letter. Ah, Alan--what have _I_ done?" He had dropped her hand before she ended, and stood looking at her with an expression that she had never dreamt could dwell in his eyes--repellant to the last degree, too cold and contemptuous for anger. It softened, though, in a second or two at the sight of Helen's distress. "Did you doubt what my answer would be? I am very sure your mother never doubted: she knew me better." No answer; but she bowed her beautiful head till it could rest on his arm; a stormy sob or two made her slender frame quiver down to the feet; and then, with a rush like that of Undine's unlocked well, the pent-up tears came. The passion-gust soon passed away; and her cousin kept silence till Helen was calm again; then he spoke very gently and gravely.