The young girl turned her face slowly away from Leslie's gaze, and when it was completely hidden among the leaves and blossoms, she breathed, in a scarcely audible whisper: "I know it, Leslie; I guessed." "What!" queried Leslie, a look of sad surprise crossing her face, "you, too, have guessed it? And I thought it so closely hidden! Oh," with a sudden burst of passion, "did my husband suspect it, too, then?" "No, dear," replied Winnie, turning her face toward Leslie but keeping her eyes averted; "no, I do not believe that Archibald guessed. He was too true and frank himself to suspect any form of falsity in another." "_Falsity!_" Leslie rose slowly to her feet, her face fairly livid. Winnie also arose, and seizing one of Leslie's hands began, in a broken voice: "Leslie, forgive the word! Oh, from the very first, I have known your secret, and pitied you. I knew it because--because I, too, am a woman, and can read a woman's heart. But Archibald never guessed it, and Alan--" She broke off abruptly, wringing her hands as if tortured by her own words. But Leslie coldly completed the sentence. "Alan! He knows it?" "Oh, yes. It began by his doubting your love for his brother, and then--the knowledge--that you cared--for him--" Across Leslie's pallid face the red blood came surging, and a bitter cry broke from her lips; a cry that bore with it all her constrained calmness. "_That I cared!_" she repeated wildly. "Winnifred French, what are you saying! God of Heaven! is _that_ madness known, too?" She flung herself upon the divan, her form shaken by a passion of voiceless sobs. "Oh, Leslie, don't!" cried Winnie, flinging herself down beside her friend. "We cannot always control our hearts; and indeed, dear, _I_ do not blame you for loving him. Leslie," lowering her voice softly, "it is no sin for you to love him, now." "No sin!" Leslie's voice was regaining its calmness, but not its icy tone. "Winnie, _you_ can say that? Ah! a woman _can_ read a woman's heart, and I have read yours: you love Alan Warburton." "I? no, no!"