"Oh I have the boon of your pity," returned Lady Desmond, between her clenched teeth. "But I am not yet reduced to accept it. Lord Effingham shall know how his future wife was trusted, and how she betrayed. Go--I desire you to leave me; I can support your presence no longer." "I will leave you," said Kate, with mournful sweetness, "but I leave you this solemn assurance, that however you may misjudge me, I would rather die than wed a man I dread so much, and love so little, as Lord Effingham." "Ha," said Lady Desmond, drawing a long breath, her wild indignant rage stilled for a moment by the unmistakeable truth which spoke in Kate's voice and manner. "I must think. But go, guilty or innocent, we can never be the same to each other again." CHAPTER VI. ARRANGEMENTS. With every pulse tumultuously throbbing, Kate closed her door, and sat down to attempt the disentanglement of the wild agitation and confusion into which all her thoughts and anticipations had been thrown by this dreadful outburst from her cousin. Never since the day that Winter had first intimated to her his opinion of the state of their affairs, had she experienced the same sudden sense of insecurity and desolation. Then she had had a full and sufficient object, round which to rally her energies and her courage; then she had had clear-headed and warm-hearted friends to advise and to uphold her. Now the one only friend, who was all that was left to her of the past, seemed suddenly rent from her by the most cruel and injurious suspicions, and a great gulf fixed between them. For Lady Desmond's last words--"Guilty or innocent, we can never be the same to each other again"--rung in her ears like an ill omened prophecy. Yet her own immediate suffering was almost lost sight of in her deep compassion for, and sympathy with, her cousin. She had anticipated a wild outbreak of indignant sorrow when Lady Desmond should first hear the terrible solution of his mysterious conduct, with which Lord Effingham had astonished the real object of his affections. But that she should be accused of deliberate treachery, of such complete and constant dissimulation, had never entered into her heart to conceive. A warm flush of indignant color rose to her brow as she thought of the injustice, and she murmured, almost aloud-- "She should have known me better. She who knew my childhood; how dare she think me so inferior to herself? She must, when she is calmer, acknowledge her error."