"Lily, dear Lily," said Bell, "turn your thoughts away from it for a while, if you can." "They won't go away," said Lily. And that was all that was said between them on the subject. Everybody would know it! I doubt whether that must not be one of the bitterest drops in the cup which a girl in such circumstances is made to drain. Lily perceived early in the day that the parlour-maid well knew that she had been jilted. The girl's manner was intended to convey sympathy; but it did convey pity; and Lily for a moment felt angry. But she remembered that it must be so, and smiled upon the girl, and spoke kindly to her. What mattered it? All the world would know it in a day or two. On the following day she went up, by her mother's advice, to see her uncle. "My child," said he, "I am sorry for you. My heart bleeds for you." "Uncle," she said, "do not mind it. Only do this for me,--do not talk about it,--I mean to me." "No, no; I will not. That there should ever have been in my house so great a rascal--" "Uncle! uncle! I will not have that! I will not listen to a word against him from any human being,--not a word! Remember that!" And her eyes flashed as she spoke. He did not answer her, but took her hand and pressed it, and then she left him. "The Dales were ever constant!" he said to himself, as he walked up and down the terrace before his house. "Ever constant!" CHAPTER XXXI. THE WOUNDED FAWN. [ILLUSTRATION: (untitled)] Nearly two months passed away, and it was now Christmas time at Allington. It may be presumed that there was no intention at either house that the mirth should be very loud. Such a wound as that received by Lily Dale was one from which recovery could not be quick, and it was felt by all the family that a weight was upon them which made gaiety impracticable. As for Lily herself it may be said that she bore her misfortune with all a woman's courage. For the first week she stood up as a tree that stands against the wind, which is soon to be shivered to pieces because it will not bend. During that week her mother and sister were frightened by her calmness and endurance. She would perform her daily task. She would go out through the village, and appear at her place in church on the first Sunday. She would sit over her book of an evening, keeping back her tears; and would chide her mother and sister when she found that they were regarding her with earnest anxiety. "Mamma, let it all be as though it had never been," she said. "Ah, dear! if that were but possible!"