“I pitied you because you were ill and lonely. You do not deserve my pity, but I forgive that, and would not see you suffer,” was the reproachful answer, as Amy turned away. But he held her fast, saying earnestly,— “What have I done? You are angry. Tell me my fault and I will amend.” “You have deceived me.” “How?” “Will you own the truth?” and in her eagerness to set her fears at rest, Amy forgot Helen. “I will.” She could not see his face, but his voice was steady and his manner earnest. “Tell me, then, is not your true name Sigismund Palsdorf?” He started, but answered instantly,— “It is not.” “You are not the baron?” cried Amy. “No; I will swear it if you wish.” “Who, then, are you?” “Shall I confess?” “Yes, I entreat you.” “Remember, you command me to speak.” “I do. Who are you?” “Your lover.” The words were breathed into her ear as softly as ardently, but they startled her so much she could find no reply, and, throwing himself down before her, Casimer poured out his passion with an impetuosity that held her breathless. “Yes, I love you, and I tell it, vain and dishonorable as it is in one like me. I try to hide it. I say ‘it cannot be.’ I plan to go away. But you keep me; you are angel-good to me; you take my heart, you care for me, teach me, pity me, and I can only love and die. I know it is folly; I ask nothing; I pray to God to bless you always, and I say, Go, go, before it is too late for you, as now for me!” “Yes, I must go—it is all wrong. Forgive me. I have been very selfish. Oh, forget me and be happy,” faltered Amy, feeling that her only safety was in flight. “Go! go!” he cried, in a heart-broken tone, yet still kissed and clung to her hands till she tore them away and fled into the house. Helen missed her soon after she went, but could not follow for several minutes; then went to their chamber and there found Amy drowned in tears, and terribly agitated. Soon the story was told with sobs and moans, and despairing lamentations fit to touch a heart of stone. “I do love him—oh, I do; but I didn’t know it till he was so unhappy, and now I’ve done this dreadful harm. He’ll die, and I can’t help him, see him, or be anything to him. Oh, I’ve been a wicked, wicked girl, and never can be happy any more.” Angry, perplexed, and conscience-stricken, for what now seemed blind and unwise submission to the major, Helen devoted herself to calming Amy, and when at last the poor, broken-hearted little soul fell asleep in her arms, she pondered half the night upon the still unsolved enigma of the Baron Sigismund. * * * * * VIII. MORE MYSTERY. “UNCLE, can I speak to you a moment?” said Helen, very gravely, as they left the breakfast-room next morning. “Not now, my dear, I’m busy,” was the hasty reply, as the major shawled Mrs. Cumberland for an early promenade.