'I shall _all the more_ do what is right--I owe her so much more. If wrong has been done, it is for me to make what reparation I can. And--Mary, try to always remember how anxious he was to'---- She broke down; an expression in her face which shewed how deep was the wound which her loving, sensitive nature had received. Her grief was so much the harder to bear, for the knowledge that her dead was less perfect than she had believed him to be. She was already obliged to plead for him. I knew that fragile as she looked, and tender and yielding as she had hitherto seemed, it arose more from humility at finding herself blessed as ordinary mortals rarely are, than from any lack of strength. We had not seen the best of Lilian Farrar yet. Least of all, did her lover know her. Already I could have given a better reason for loving her than he could have done. She was musing over the address: 'Mrs Pratt, Green Street, Islington.' 'Is that where--my sister is staying, do you think, Mary? Would it not be better to go there?' 'Would you like me to go for you, Lilian?' For a moment she looked not a little relieved by the suggestion; but after a little reflection, appeared to put the temptation to avail herself of it, aside. 'Not if I ought to go myself. Do you think that I ought to do so, Mary?' I replied with a question: 'What do you intend to do when you have found Marian' (sister did not come readily to my lips, and I used the name instead), 'my darling?' 'Ask her to come to live here, and do all I can to make up for the wrong done to her mother'--in a low, but clear and decided tone. Even at that moment, with her grief so fresh upon her, though it cost her a sharp agony to use the word, she called it a 'wrong.' But although my sympathies were entirely with her, I thought it right to remind her of one thing. 'There is the possibility that she may not be the kind of companion you would desire to have always with you, Lilian.' 'I want to do right, Mary,' she replied, putting my little attempt at sophistry aside. I nevertheless made one more little feeble protest on the side of expediency. 'There are your aunt and Mr Trafford also to be considered, you know.' 'I want to do what is right,' she repeated. In her faith and inexperience, she had no misgivings as to their concurrence in all that was right; or if she had doubts with regard to one, she would not allow so much to herself. 'Therefore I think you ought not to make up your mind too decidedly as to what it will be right to do, until you have seen her--then perhaps you might trust to your instincts.' 'And, Mary,' she said, a little consciously, 'I think I would rather not name it to any one but you, until everything is settled. We can explain to auntie and Arthur afterwards, you know.'