"My child!" said Denville sadly, as he bent down and kissed her. "You are weary and excited to-night. Pray say no more." He left the room, and went downstairs to bid the servants leave everything till morning, and go to bed; and as the door closed Claire knelt down beside her sister, and laid her hand upon her burning forehead. "That's nice," sighed May; and then she sat up suddenly, glanced round, and flung her arms round Claire's neck to hide her face in her breast, and burst into a passionate fit of sobbing. "Oh, hush, hush, May, my darling," whispered Claire tenderly, as she kissed and caressed the pretty little head, which was jerked up again in an angry, spasmodic way. "You saw--you heard," she cried, with her face flushed and her eyes flashing, as she talked in a quick, low, excited manner. "You blamed me for loving poor Louis. Why, he was all that was gentle and kind. He loved me in his fierce Italian way, and he was so jealous that he would have killed me if I had given him cause. But so tender and loving; while this nasty, hateful little Frank--" "May: oh, hush!" "I won't hush. I hate him. I despise him. A mean, shabby, spiteful little wretch! You saw him to-night. He pinched me, and wrung my wrists. He often hurts me." "May!--May!" "It's true. He strikes me, too; and I tell you I hate him." "May! Your husband, whom you have sworn to honour and love!" "And I don't either, and I never shall," cried May sharply. "You must, you must, May, my darling. There, there; you are flushed and excited with your head being so bad, and Frank was not so gentle as he might have been. He was vexed because you had turned ill." "Nasty, fretful wretch!" "May!" "I don't care; he is," cried the little foolish thing, looking wonderfully like an angry child as she spoke. "Hush! I will not let you speak of your husband like that, May." "Husband! A contemptible little tipsy wretch who bought me of papa because I was pretty. I loathe him, I tell you. Papa ought to have been ashamed of himself for selling me as he did." "May! May! little sister!" said Claire, weeping silently as she drew her baby head to her bosom, and tried to stay the flow of bitter words that came. "Horses and carriages, and servants and dresses, and nothing else but misery. I tell you--I don't care! If he ever beats me again I'll run away from him, that I will." "No, no, little passionate, tender heart," said Claire lovingly. "You are ill and troubled to-night. There, there. You shall sleep quietly to-night under the old roof. Why, May dear, it seems like the dear old times, and you are the little girl again whom I am going to undress and put to bed. There, you are better now." "Old times? What, of misery and poverty and wretchedness, and having servants that you cannot pay, and struggling to keep up appearances, and all for what?"