And then Veronica stood up and looked over the governess's shoulders. "This is beautifully done," she said; "but you have not done much--and how your fingers tremble! How pale you are too! Surely you are not ill again, Miss Holte?" she added, impatiently. "I am quite well," answered Hyacinth, coldly; and then with an iron will she put back the surging thoughts and memories that were gradually overcoming her. "I will think when I am alone," she said to herself--"now I must work." And work she did--so well that in a short time the sketch was almost completed. Presently Veronica came up to her again, and took the pencil from her hands. "I must do a little," she said; and she finished some of the shading, and then signed her initials in the corner--"V. D."--and laughed as she did so. "If Lord Chandon praises the sketch, Miss Holte," she said, "I will repeat his compliments to you. He cannot help being pleased with it, it is so beautifully done. You are a true artist." "I am glad that you are pleased with it," Hyacinth replied. And then she began to wonder. She had often been out sketching with Adrian, and he had given her many valuable hints. Would he recognize her pencil? Would it be possible? And then she laughed to herself, and said it was only an idle fear--only her nervous imagination that troubled her. If what they said was true--and they had no motive for speaking falsely--Adrian did not hate her--he did not even despise her. He had called her true and brave; he had spoken of her with admiration and with tears in his eyes. Ah, thank Heaven for that! Her heart had almost withered believing in his contempt. She knew his estimation of women to be so high that she had not believed it possible he could do anything but hate her. Yet he did not hate her. Tears such as she had not shed since her troubles fell like rain from her eyes--tears that cooled the cruel fever, that were like healing drops. It seemed as though one-half her sorrow had vanished--Adrian did not hate her. Life would be a thousand times easier now. She felt that no greater happiness could have been bestowed upon her than to know that he thought well of her. Of course, as Miss Dartelle said, he could never marry her--she had compromised herself. The old sweet tie between them could never be renewed. Less than ever now could she bear the thought of meeting him; but the sharpest sting of her pain was gone--he did not hate her. She was still dead to him, but how much lighter the load was to her. His hatred and contempt had weighed her to the very earth--had bowed her beautiful head in unutterable shame. That was all gone now; he knew the worst there was to know of her, and yet he had called her brave and true. He had mourned for her, he liked to talk about her, and they all believed her dead.