"I have--Heaven help me! Can you not guess what it is that has caused this?" "N--o," she faltered. But even as the word left her lips there rose up before her the secret of that dreadful night--with the suspicion that Oswald had in some unaccountable manner become cognisant of it. "I loved you as I believe man never yet loved, Sara; I looked forward to years of happiness with you; I expected you to be my wife. And--and--I cannot go on!" he broke off. "I cannot speak of this to you." The tears were rolling down her pale face. "You must not leave me in suspense, Oswald. It may be better for us both that you should speak out freely." Yes, it might be better for them both; at any rate he felt that no choice was left to him now. He drew nearer to her and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Is there no--Heaven pardon me for speaking the word to you, Sara!--disgraceful secret attaching now to--to your family? One which would render it impossible for a man of honour to----" He would not say more; he had said enough; and he felt the words to his heart's core. Whatever pain they may have brought to her, they inflicted tenfold more upon him. With a low cry, she flung her hands before her face. "Is it so, Sara?" "It is. How did you hear of it?" "The whisper came to me. Some people might--might--call it murder." "No, no!" she broke forth in her pain. "It surely was not so bad as that. They kept the details from me, Oswald; but it could not have been so bad as that." The words fell on his heart like an ice-bolt. Unconsciously to himself he had been hoping that she might disprove the tale. For that purpose he had whispered to her of the worst: but it seemed that she could not deny it. It was quite enough, and he quitted the subject abruptly. "God bless you, my darling, for ever and for ever," he said, taking her hands in his. "I do not respect or love you less; but I cannot--I cannot--you know what I would say. It is a cruel fate upon me, as upon you; and for the present, for both our sakes, it may be better that our paths in life should lie apart. After awhile we may meet again, as friends, and continue to be such throughout life." The tears had dried on her face, as it was lifted in the moonlight, its expression one living agony. But there was no resentment in it; on the contrary, she fully justified him. Her hands lingered in his with a farewell pressure, and she strove to re-echo the blessing he had given. They parted, each going a different way. Oswald Cray, in no mood for the Abbey now, struck off towards the "Apple Tree;" Sara, drawing her veil over her face, went on to her home. And so the dream was over. The dream which she had long been unconsciously cherishing of what a meeting between them might bring about, was over; and Sara Davenal had been rudely awakened to stern reality. CHAPTER XXIX. A SPECIAL FAVOUR FOR NEAL.