"But I can not change," he answered. "If fortune had made me a king, should I have loved your sister less! Is a man's heart a plaything? Can I call back my love? It has caused me woe enough." Lillian knew not what to say in the presence of this mighty love; her gentle efforts at mediation were bootless. She pitied him she pitied Beatrice. "I am sure you can be generous," she said, after a short silence. "Great, true, noble love is never selfish. My sister can never be happy with you; then release her. If you force her, or rather try to force her, to keep this rash promise, think how she will dislike you. If you are generous, and release her, think how she will esteem you." "Does she not love me?" he asked; and his voice was hoarse with pain. "No," replied Lillian, gently; "it is better for you to know the truth. She does not love you--she never will." "I do not believe it," he cried. "I will never believe it from any lips but her own! Not love me! Great Heaven! Do you know you are speaking of the woman who promised to be my wife? If she tells me so, I will believe her." "She will tell you," said Lillian, "and you must not blame her. Come again when she is well." "No," returned Hugh Fernely; "I have waited long enough. I am here to see her, and I swear I will not leave until she has spoken to me." He drew a pencil case from his pocket, and wrote a few lines on the envelope which Beatrice had sent. "Give that to your sister," he said, softly; "and, Miss Lillian, I thank you for coming to me. You have been very kind and gentle. You have a fair, true face. Never break a man's heart for pastime, or because the long sunny hours hang heavy upon your hands." "I wish I could say something to comfort you," she said. He held out his hand and she could not refuse hers. "Goodbye, Miss Lillian! Heaven bless you for your sympathy." "Goodbye," she returned, looking at the dark, passionate face she was never more to see. The moon was hidden behind a dense mass of thick clouds. Hugh Fernely walked quickly down the path. Lillian, taking the folded paper, hastened across the gardens. But neither of them saw a tall, erect figure, or a pale, stricken face; neither of them heard Lionel Dacre utter a low cry as the shawl fell from Lillian's golden head. He had tried over the trio, but it did not please him; he did not want music--he wanted Lillian. Beatrice played badly, too, as though she did not know what she was doing. Plainly enough Lord Airlie wanted him out of the way. "Where are you going?" asked Beatrice, as he placed the music on the piano.