"I don't know, Belle," Mrs. Tregonell answered, helplessly, very anxious to be true and conscientious, and, if she must needs be guide, to guide the girl aright through this perilous passage in her life. "It is so difficult at my age to know what one would have done in one's girlhood. The fires are all burnt out; the springs that moved one then are all broken. Judging now, with the dull deliberation of middle age, I should say it would be a dangerous thing for any girl to marry a man who had been notoriously devoted to another woman--that woman still living, still having power to charm him. How can you ever be secure of his love? how be sure that he would not be lured back to the old madness? These women are so full of craft--it is their profession to tempt men to destruction. You remember what the Bible says of such? 'They are more bitter than death: their feet go down to death: their steps take hold on hell." "Don't, Auntie," faltered Christabel. "Yes, I understand. Yes, he would tire of me and go back to her very likely. I am not half so lovely, nor half so fascinating. Or, if he were true to honour and duty, he would regret her all his life. He would be always repenting that he had not broken down all barriers and married her. He would see her sometimes on the stage, or in the Park, and just the sight of her face flashing past him would spoil his happiness. Happiness," she repeated, bitterly, "what happiness? what peace could there be for either of us? knowing of that fatal love. I have decided, Auntie, I shall love Angus all the days of my life, but I will never marry him." Mrs. Tregonell clasped the girl in her arms, and they wept together, one with the slow silent tears of life that was well-nigh worn out, the other with youth's passionate sobs--sobs that shook the slender frame. "My beloved, you have chosen wisely and well," said the widow, her heart throbbing with new hopes--it was not of Angus Hamleigh's certain loss she thought, but of her son Leonard's probable gain--"you have chosen wisely. I do not believe that you could ever have been really happy with him. Your heart would have been consumed with jealous fears--suspicion would have haunted your life--that evil woman's influence would have darkened all your days." "Don't say another word," pleaded Christabel, in low hoarse tones; "I have quite made up my mind. Nothing can change it." She did not want to be encouraged or praised; she did not want comfort or consolation. Even her aunt's sympathy jarred upon her fretted nerves. She felt that she must stand alone in her misery, aloof from all human succour. "Good-night," she said, bending down to touch her aunt's forehead, with tremulous lips. "Won't you stay, dear? Sleep with me to-night." "Sleep?" echoed the girl. "No, Auntie dear; I would rather be in my own room!"