"She must not come, dear: you cannot see Lesley Brooke again. It is her father who has done this terrible thing--blighted your life--destroyed your happiness----" And so she would have babbled on had not Ethel all at once raised herself in her bed, with white face and flaming eyes, and called in tones as clear and resonant as ever-- "Lesley! Lesley! come back!" And then the old aunt was silent: silent and amazed. From the next room Lesley came, softly and swiftly as was her wont. Her face was pale, but her eyes and lips were steady. She went straight to Ethel; was at once encircled by the girl's arms, and drew Ethel's head down upon her shoulder. "Shall I go?" she whispered in Ethel's ear. "No, no; don't leave me." "You know what they say? Can you trust my father?" "I trust you both. Stay with me." Lesley raised her head and looked back at the little group of meddlesome women who had tried to tear her from her friend's side. At the look they disappeared. They dared not say another word after meeting the rebuke conveyed in Lesley's pale, set face and resolute eyes. They closed the door behind them, and left the two girls alone. For a long time neither spoke. Ethel seemed to have relapsed once more into a semi-unconscious state. Lesley sat motionless, pillowing her friend's head against her shoulder, and stroking one of her hands with her own. Now and then hot tears welled over and dropped upon Ethel's dark, curly head, but Lesley did not try to wipe them away. She scarcely knew that she was crying: she was only aware of a great weight of trouble that had come upon her--trouble that seemed to include in its effects all that she held most dear. Trouble not only to her friend, but to her father, her mother, her lover. Not a shadow of doubt as to her father's innocence rested upon her mind: there was no perplexity, no shame--only sorrow and anxiety. Not many women could have borne the strain of utter silence with such a burden laid on them to bear. But to Lesley, even in that hour, Ethel's trouble was greater than her own. An hour must have passed away before Ethel murmured, "Lesley--are you there?" "Yes, I am with you, darling: I am here." "You are crying." "I am crying for you, Ethel, dear." For the first time, Ethel's hand answered to her pressure. After a little silence, she spoke again-- "I wish I could die--too." "My poor little Ethel." "I suppose there is no chance of that. People--like me--don't die. They only suffer--and suffer--and break their hearts--and live till they are eighty. Oh, if you were kind to me, you would give me something to make me die."