"I'm sure of it, Mr. Lambert. She has confessed to me, that if she did not actually say to you that she was going to marry Lieutenant Kingsland, she purposely allowed you to believe the same; and then assured my husband, whom I believe to be as innocent in the matter as I am, that your consent had been gained, and all arrangements made." The old parson sat down on a rustic seat beside an elaborately natural, sheet-iron water-fall, seemingly quite crushed by the blow. But the spirit of the church militant was strong within him, and he was filled with righteous anger at his unmerited treatment; so taking his companion's hand, he rose presently, saying:-- "Come. Let us go to your mother and tell her the truth; we owe it to her and to ourselves." "To-morrow, Mr. Lambert--pray wait till to-morrow." The preacher's face hardened; he was in no mood for leniency. "We have delayed too long already," he said, and took a step forward. "Believe me," she replied, laying her hand on his arm, "I do not ask it from weakness, but my husband returns to-morrow, and thanks to an inheritance from an uncle who died to-day, comes back a rich man, able to support a wife. When my mother knows this, she will receive our news very differently. See," and she handed him the telegram. "I will wait till your husband returns to speak to your mother," he replied, "but as for that unhappy girl--if it is not too late to turn her steps to the right path--I will spare no pains to bring her to a realisation of what she has done. For this, no time is like the present--no time too soon." "I hope you may succeed," said Lady Isabelle, "but I fear you'll find her much worse than you imagine. However, I do not wish to discourage you." "I'm not easy to discourage in any good work, I trust, Lady Isabelle Kingsland." She started, as her new name was pronounced, and laying a detaining hand upon him, as he would have left her, said, her voice breaking:-- "Forgive me, Mr. Lambert. Say you forgive me." "My poor child," he said sadly, placing one hand on her bowed head. "My poor child, you are too much in need of forgiveness from others for me to withhold mine. It is yours freely; but promise me that you'll show your appreciation of it by coming to me in all your troubles." She seized his other hand in both of hers, and kissing it, burst into tears. "And now," he said sternly, "I will seek out that miserable girl." But Miss Fitzgerald, dreading the tempest, had sought the haven of her own room. She was not a picture of contrite repentance as she stood by the open window, looking out into the night. "Fools all!" she mused. "So I am to blame--it is all my fault!" An amused sneer played about her lips. "Ah me! After all it is our faults that make life interesting to us--or us interesting to others," and she tossed away her half-smoked cigarette with a shrug. CHAPTER XXX TWO LETTERS