"It is weak to give way before you, child," she said, sadly. "But I cannot tell you how much I have dreaded this moment--the moment when I must tell you of the great error of my life." "Don't tell me, mamma. I would rather hear nothing that you did not want me to know." "But I must tell you, Lesley. It is in my bargain with my husband that I should tell you. If I say nothing he will tell you _his_ side--and perhaps that would be worse." Lesley kissed her mother's delicate hand. "Then--if you _must_ tell me--I should be glad to hear it all now," she said, in a shaking voice. "Nothing seems so bad as to know half a story--or only to guess a part----" "Ah, you have wondered why I told you nothing of your father?" "I could not help wondering, mamma." "Poor child! Well, whatever it costs me I will tell you all my story now. Listen carefully, darling: I do not want to have to tell it twice." She pressed her handkerchief to her lips as if to prevent them from trembling, and then turning her eyes to another part of the room so that they need not rest upon her daughter's face Lady Alice began her story. "My tale is a tale of folly, not of crime," she said. "You must remember, Lesley, that I was a motherless girl, brought up in a lonely Scotch house in a very haphazard way. My dear father loved me tenderly, but he was away from home for the greater part of the year; and he understood little of a girl's nature or a girl's requirements. When I was sixteen he allowed me to dismiss my governess, and to live as I liked. I was romantic and dreamy; I spent a great deal of time in the library, and he thought that there at least I was safe. He would have been more careful of me, as he said afterwards, if I had wanted to roam over the moors and fields, to fish or shoot as many modern women do. I can only say that I think I should have been far safer on the hillside or the moor than I was in the lonely recesses of that library, pouring over musty volumes of chivalry and romance. "My only change was a few weeks in London with friends, during the season. Here, young as I was, I was thrown into a whirl of gaiety; but the society that I met was of the best sort, and I welcomed it as a pleasant relaxation. I saw the pleasant side of everything. You see I was very young. I went to the most charming parties; I was well introduced: I think I may say that I was admired. My first season was almost the happiest--certainly the most joyous--period of my life. But it was still a time of unreality, Lesley: the glitter and glamour of that glimpse of London society was as unreal as my dreams of love and beauty and nobleness in the old library at home. I lacked a mother's guiding hand, my child, and a mother's tender voice to tell me what was false and what was true." Involuntarily Lesley drew closer than ever to her mother.