“You, dear Kitty.” “But, is there anybody you shall _marry_? Do you like any person well enough for that?” “I truly hope it. ’Twould be forlorn to think otherwise.” “Now, in Heaven’s name, don’t trifle! Tell me something about yourself, about your past life; if you do not, Lucy, I shall go mad at once.” Lucy seemed lost in wonder, or in retrospection, as Kitty spoke thus; she did not answer, and the impatient child, unable to bear the silence and suspense, threw herself on her knees, and looked up imploringly, with clasped hands, on the governess; finally, she said, “Lucy Freer, tell me—_do_ you love Eugene? What has made you so sad and pale lately?” “Do I love _him_! Yes, heartily—he has been so kind to me!” was the now immediate and energetic reply. “Would you hear of my past, dear Kitty? It is a dreary story.” But it was now the young girl who was silent; with her head bent to her knees she sat at the feet of the governess; perhaps Lucy comprehended her thoughts by intuition, (I know not,) but at all events she did not wait long for a reply. “I am a married woman already,” she said. And now was Kitty all life and fire—up she sprung, exclaiming, “Is _he_, then, your husband?” “No, far from it,” was the answer which rolled back a cloud that threatened to make more than Hadé’s gloom in the soul of the pupil. “I will tell you all, dear child; indeed, I will, for I can _now_—sit down.” She was obeyed. “To-night Eugene Lind, God bless him! has sent me a letter, the first received in months from my husband, Richmond Freer. Come nearer, Kitty, look up, I am sad no longer, even though I tell you he is exiled, he can never come back to old England again. But I am going to him. I am going very soon.” No, even at this sudden and most unexpected announcement, the listener would not lift her head. “When I was at school, in London, I wrote occasionally for a paper which Richmond edited; and by so doing I was able to help my poor, dear mother very much—and she was in need of help. After a while I became personally acquainted with the editor, and when at last he was arrested for publishing what was called an incendiary—a too patriotic a paper for these slavish times—you may be sure I did not forget to feel for him. After his trial was over, and the sentence of banishment was passed on him, we met again, for we loved each other, Kitty, and misfortune made him only dearer to me. The very night of his departure from England, his cousin, Eugene Lind, married us—and my poor mother was present at the ceremony; she would not oppose the union, wild as it doubtless seemed to her, because she knew that we were not fickle in our love, and felt that a bright time might at last come even to us. Shortly after the exile’s departure she died. I was left _alone_! When I had finished the course of studies, and was a graduate, owing to Eugene’s efforts, this situation of governess in your home was secured to me. May