"Je suis l'heureuse gardeuse de l'ours." "Yes, you are a bear, Georgie, and twice as sulky." But Georgie, paler than usual, dark rings round her eyes, would lie flaccidly in her lounge chair, the infant on her lap, and decline to be galvanized even into momentary life by her cousin's taunts or innuendoes. There she would sit for hours together, gazing into space, the silent victim of another's fault. Why did she not rebel? Why did she not insist on informing her husband at least of her cousin's lapse, of her ignoble stratagem? Probably because she was too conscientious. With some few people truth-telling is a sort of religion, a kind of Obi, a fetish; so it was with young Mrs. Haggard. She had promised, nay she had sworn. A voice, more awful than that of the Veiled Prophet, ever cried in her ear, "Thy oath, thy oath." Deception, so hateful to her truthful soul, she was compelled to carry on even against her trusting husband. Many a time and oft had she pleaded, with tears, to the remorseless girl who looked so soft and yielding. But the tender lines of Lucy's voluptuous figure covered a marble heart. "Reginald would never betray you, darling," she had said. "He would do anything for my sake, for us and for this poor little thing." Here her eyes filled with tears as she kissed the unconscious infant in her arms. "It's no use, Georgie, you've promised, and I shan't release you. You are a most interesting young mother. You look the part; there is a sort of matronly dignity about you, Georgie, that I could never hope to attain. Don't plague me," she continued. "As for telling Reginald or any soul alive, I'd die first; and mind you I mean it, it's no idle talk. If you ever should be so cruel as to tell my secret, our secret--if you should dare to tell it, even to hint it, Georgie"--and here the lovely eyes seemed to scintillate with suppressed fury--"you would bid good-bye to me, at all events in this world," and then she would go off into a half hysterical laugh. At first scenes such as these were frequent, but Georgie gradually ceased to plead. She had reluctantly now accepted her position, and recognized her cousin's determination as immutable. Lucy had read her uncle's letter aloud, eagerly breaking the seal; for her cousin had drifted into a state of listless apathy, a kind of dull indifference, from which even a letter from her much-loved father failed to rouse her. No look of interest, no answering smile lit up her once bright features as Lucy read the letter, interlarding it, as was her way, with a running fire of comment. When she came to the invitation to the Castle she could not restrain the exuberance of her delight, but clapped her hands in girlish glee.