"Yes, dear, I did, for--for--Oh, Moray, I will--I will speak," she sobbed, in a passionate burst of tears. "You are so big and kind and good, I will tell you everything." "Tell me, then," he said, patting her head, as if she were his child. "You did love this man?" "Moray!" Only that word; but it was so full of scorn, contempt, and reproach also to the questioner, that it carried conviction with it, and, taking Lucy's face between his hands, Alleyne bent down and kissed her tenderly. "I am very glad, dear," he said quietly, "more glad than I dare say to you; but tell me--you used to meet him frequently?" "Yes, yes, Moray, I did--I did, dear. It was wicked and false of me. I ought not to have done what I did, but--but--oh, Moray--will you forgive me if I tell you all?" He remained silent for a few moments, gazing sternly down into his sister's eyes, and then said softly,-- "Yes, Lucy, I will forgive you anything that you have done." "I--I--thought it was for the best," she sobbed--"I thought I should be serving you, Moray, dear." "How? serving me?" "Yes, yes, I knew--I felt all that you felt, and seemed to read all your thoughts, and I wanted--I wanted--oh, Moray, dear, forgive me for causing you pain in what I say, I wanted Glynne to love you as I saw that you loved her." His brow knit tightly, and he drew a long and gasping breath, but he controlled himself, and in a low, almost inaudible voice, he whispered,-- "Go on." "I was out walking one morning," continued Lucy, "and Captain Rolph met me, and--a woman sees anything so quickly--he began paying me compliments, and flirting, and he seemed so false and careless of Glynne that I thought there would be no harm in encouraging him a little, and letting him think I was impressed, so that Glynne might find out how worthless and common he is, and then send him about his business, Moray, dear. And then when her eyes were opened, she might--might--Oh, Moray, dear, I don't like to say it. But I went on like that, and he used to see me whenever I was out. He watched for me, and he doesn't care a bit for Glynne, and I don't believe he did for me; I never even let him touch my hand, and it's all months ago now, and oh, Moray, Moray, I'm a wicked, wicked girl, and everybody thinks ill of me, even mamma, and I've never been happy since." "And so you did all this, little woman, for me?" "Yes, yes, dear, I--I thought I was doing right." "And I thought that you cared for Oldroyd, Lucy, and--" "No, no: I hate him," she cried passionately, and her cheeks turned scarlet for the sinful little words. "And you are very unhappy, my child?" he continued. "Yes, yes, yes, miserably unhappy, dear. I wish we were thousands of miles away, and all dead and buried, and never--and never likely to see this horrid place again."