Stella was intensely miserable that evening. Every now and then she told herself, in passionate self-reproach, that hers was the fault, that Hilary had not loved her, had not meant to kiss her. It was merely, as he himself had said, like a part of his dream; it was that little gesture of hers toward him which had hastened that one quick embrace of which he had already so plainly repented. She almost cried aloud in humiliation at the thought, and the blushes coursed over her cheeks under her lowered lashes so swiftly and unaccountably that poor Lord Carthew was to be pardoned if he began to lay the dear delight to his soul that she was thinking of him. Of what else, indeed, could she be thinking? he asked himself, as he noted her evident abstraction, her strange reserve, and those sudden changes of color. When Lady Cranstoun and Stella retired to the drawing-room, the former, settling herself upon her sofa, motioned to the young girl to draw her low stool up beside her, and tenderly stroked her hair. “I am so glad, my dear,” she murmured, while her gentle eyes filled with tears, “so very, very glad. And I like him extremely. He is the ideal son I always wished to have. I cannot tell you what a relief it all is to my mind. He is my own relation, too. I have not felt so happy for many, many years.” “What do you mean, mamma dear?” stammered Stella, feeling terribly guilty. “Ah, my child, you know well enough. And now I will tell you something, dear; if I have often seemed rather selfish in the way in which I have taken care of myself, and tried to avoid excitement and ward off attacks of illness, it has been because of my awful dread of leaving you with _him_--your father. Heaven knows, I have been always a poor companion for a lovely, bright, young girl, and not much protection for you against his anger. But still, you have always felt, have you not, that your mother was with you, that she loved you, and sympathized with you, and suffered with you? You have never felt the bitter loneliness of being without a friend to love you among enemies? When I have been feeling tired, ill, and worn out, I have said to myself, ‘I must not give way; I must not die until my Stella is happily provided for.’ I could not die and leave you with _him_. But now if, as Lord Carthew suggests, the marriage takes place almost immediately--and, indeed, what is there to hinder it?--I shall have my mind at peace, knowing that you will be safe under the protection of a good man’s love. I can die quietly, happily, and thankfully, remembering that.” “Don’t, don’t talk about dying!” cried Stella, bursting into a flood of tears, and covering Lady Cranstoun’s wasted hands with kisses. “I could not lose you--you must not die! And--and I don’t love Lord Carthew. I never shall. I know he is good and clever, and all that you say, but--but I cannot marry him!” Lady Cranstoun sat upright on her sofa, looking very white and wan.