Marion Arleigh lived afterward to be presented at Court, but she never again felt the same diffidence, the same trepidation, as when, with her false friend by her side, she went down the steps that led to the orchard. The hedge was high and thick, tall trees formed a complete barrier between the grounds and the high road, no strangers or passersby could be seen. Miss Lyster had chosen her time well. She knew that in the lady superintendent's absence the servants would hold high revels; there was no fear of interruption. In after life Marion Arleigh remembered every detail of that evening. It was May then, and the hedge was white with hawthorn; there was a gleam of gold from the laburnums, and the scent of the lilacs filled the air; the apple trees were all in blossom, the birds were singing, the sun shining, warmth and fragrance and beauty lay all around her. Far down the orchard, standing sketching a picturesque old tree, was the artist, Allan Lyster. He looked up as the sound of light footsteps rustled in the grass. When he saw who was coming he flung down his pencils and advanced, hat in hand. There was something graceful and poetical, after all, in the way in which he went up to Miss Arleigh and knelt lightly on one knee. "I would kiss the hem of your robe if I dared," he said. "How am I to thank you?" Then he sprang up and took his sister's hand in his. He allowed no time for confusion and embarrassment--he was too clever for that. "How am I to thank you, Miss Arleigh?" he said. "If the sun had fallen from the heavens, I could not have felt, more surprise than your kindness has caused me. My sister tells me you are good enough not to be angry at my presumption." Miss Lyster laughed. "I think, Allan," she said, "that I shall leave you to listen to Miss Arleigh's lecture alone. She will be able to say harder words to you if I am not by to listen. I will see if I can finish your picture." She walked over to the tree where paper and pencils lay, leaving them alone, and though she was a woman, and young--though she knew that she was most foully betraying a girl whose youth and innocence might have pleaded for her, she had not even a passing thought of pity. "Let Allan win the fortune if he can. He will make better use of it than she could." "You are so good to me," murmured the young artist, his dark eyes flashing keenly for one-half a minute over that beautiful face. "I am at a loss for words." Allan Lyster was gifted with a most musical voice, and he understood perfectly well how to make the most use of it. The pathos with which he said those words was wonderful to hear. "I am glad to see you," she said. "Your sister tells me you think of going abroad." "Has she told you why?" he asked eagerly. Marion's face grew crimson. The beautiful eyes dropped from his. She drew back ever so little, but another keen, sharp glance told him she was not angry; only shy and timid.