“Has he asked you to plead for him?” interrupted Mrs. Crosbie, coldly. “No; he told me his secret this morning, urged by I know not what,” and Vane let her eyes wander away again. “Perhaps,” she went on, after a brief pause, “some idea of the warm interest I must ever have in him prompted him; but that I cannot tell. He spoke openly to me, and asked me to be her friend as I was his.” A sneer curled Mrs. Crosbie’s lip. “He evidently thought union was strength,” she remarked, dryly. “Aunt Constance, I will not hear your anger against Stuart,” Vane said, quickly. “I--I am his friend, and----” Her head drooped and her cheeks flushed. Then she went on, hurriedly: “It is not his fault--of that I am sure; you must blame Margery Daw, if you blame any one.” “Does he expect me to receive her?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, quietly. “I think so. But listen to me, Aunt Constance. I have not crossed Stuart, I have not refused his request, for I feared, in his weak state, to vex him; but he has left everything in my hands, and I will----” She stopped, and their eyes met. “What?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, almost sharply. “Save him from this if I can.” The words were uttered very quietly, and Mrs. Crosbie drew a quick breath of relief. “Vane,” she said, “forgive me; I was wrong to doubt you, even for a moment.” “I know what it is,” Vane went on, hurriedly--“a glamour, a romance. Stuart has been here alone--he has been bewitched. But I know, too, what a bitter awakening it would be when the glamour was gone, the veil of poetry and romance torn down; and, for his sake, I will do it. Aunt Constance, do not think me bold--do not think me unwomanly. I cannot help myself; I would do anything for Stuart--for--for I--love him!” Vane sank back and buried her face in her hands. Mrs. Crosbie put her arms around her niece and drew her to her shoulder. “Unwomanly, Vane?” she said, gently. “I honor you. This is as it should be.” “Ah, you will keep my secret, Aunt Constance? He must not know--I would not let him know for untold gold. If we succeeded in satisfying this girl’s ambition or avarice--money generally heals such wounds as hers--we must remember he will be troubled perhaps for a time. I would not let him think my heart hungered for him; my pride would suffer--it would kill me.” “He shall not know, I promise,” Mrs. Crosbie responded, stroking Vane’s soft hair. “But what shall we do--how break this off? It has taken me at a disadvantage; the very thought seems so monstrous, I cannot yet believe it.” “I want you to humor Stuart,” Vane said. “Let him think that you may consent eventually; be proud and cold, but not unkind. The blow must come from her.” “How?” inquired Mrs. Crosbie, for once roused from her calm demeanor. “She must be convinced of the uselessness of her scheme. I am going to her now, sent as Stuart’s messenger. I think I shall pave the way, at any rate.” Mrs. Crosbie clasped her niece’s hand for an instant, and then turned aside.