“I promise. I will not write to any one in France, but may be you will tell me some time. Will you, Margery?” “Never—never, so help me Heaven!” was the emphatic reply, as Margery fell back among her pillows wholly exhausted. For a moment Reinette stood looking curiously at her; then seating herself upon the side of the bed, and taking Margery’s hand, she said: “You make me half repent my promise made without stopping to consider, for my curiosity is very great. But I shall keep it, do not fear; only tell me this—was it anything very dreadful which your mother did?” “Yes,” Margery replied, “it was _very_ dreadful—it would make you hate her and me, too, if you knew. Don’t talk to me or any one about it. Don’t mention it again.” “But tell me one thing more,” Queenie persisted; “I have a right to know. Was my father involved in it?” She held her breath for the answer, and looked earnestly at Margery, whose eyes grew larger and brighter, and whose face was scarlet as she answered at last: “At first he was, but for the last, the thing for which I blame mother most, he was not to blame.” “Thank God for that,” Queenie exclaimed joyfully, while her tears fell in torrents. “Oh, Margery, you don’t know what a load you have taken from me—a load I did not mean any one should ever suspect, because—because—Margery, I don’t mind telling you—I’ve had some dreadful thoughts about Christine. Forgive me, Margery, do,” she continued, as she saw a strange look leap into her friend’s eyes, a look which she construed into one of resentment toward her for having harbored a suspicion of her mother, but which arose from a widely different reason, and was born of bitter shame and a great pity for herself. “I’ve nothing to forgive, at least in you,” Margery said, as she covered Queenie’s hands with kisses and tears, which fell so fast and so long that Queenie became alarmed, and tried to comfort and quiet her. “Don’t, Margie, don’t,” she said; “it distresses me to see you so disturbed. If father was not to blame I do not care for the rest, but I could not bear to lose faith in him whom I have loved and honored so much.” “You never shall, darling; never, never,” Margery exclaimed, and Reinette little dreamed how much the girl was thrusting from her, or how terrible was the temptation which for one brief instant almost overcame her. But she put it down, and in her heart registered a far more solemn vow than her lips had uttered that never, through any instrumentality of hers, should Queenie know what she knew and what had affected her so powerfully, taking away all her strength and seemingly all her vitality so that she did not rally or take the slightest interest in anything about her. At last the physician said Margery must have a change and then Reinette insisted upon taking her to Hetherton Place.