“No. A brother of his, Mary tells me, has come, and will attend the funeral. But he has distinctly told her that he can give no help.” Kingcote had drawn away a little; Isabel took and held his hand. “Bernard, how can you support them?” “Oh, for a time it doesn’t matter; I shall use my capital. Then I shall--work like others do, I suppose. I have had an easy life so long; it was sure to come to an end some day.” “Why do you keep away from me? What does all this matter? Nothing has come between us, dear.” His brows were heavy, and he could only look at her sadly. Isabel turned her head away, and dashed tears from her eyes. “But you too have your ill news, you said?” For answer she rose and fetched Ada’s letter. Bernard read it. “Why ill news?” he asked, when he had brooded for a moment. Isabel had not resumed her seat. She moved about in much agitation, and at length threw herself on her knees by him. “It is something that I ought to have told you before,” she said. “It seemed, though, such an easy difficulty to overcome; I was so happy, and I would not think of anything in the way. I--” she hid her face against him--“I have lived beyond my income, and have had to borrow money--a large sum of money. I could not have done it, I think, unless it had seemed certain that I should marry some rich man,--though I had to insure my life, and there was my annuity. You know I have had only two thousand a year; it was so little for the way in which I lived. I have always been so thoughtless about money. I could not foresee this great happiness that has come to me. Do not think--Bernard, you won’t think that I should have ever married only because the man who asked me was rich,--I mean if I had never known you. You won’t think that? I have told you that I could never have brought myself to that. Listen, the day before my accident, before I knew that you loved me, before my own love for you had become certain in my heart, Lord Winterset asked me to be his wife, and I--I refused.” She had looked up pleadingly, but at the end hid her face again. Oh, it is so hard to a woman--nay, that is unjust, to a man also--to speak out the whole truth in self-accusation. Who ever yet did it? What penitent at the confessional? What votary in silent prayer? Maybe it is regard for the dignity of human nature which chains the tongue, that dignity which it costs so much to support, which we so often feel to be a name only, or the shadow of a name. Kingcote could say nothing.