“No, it is not wholly that,” Virgie interposed quietly, while her grave, beautiful eyes searched Lady Linton’s face, with something of pity in them: “It is because you have injured me, and one is apt to dislike and shrink from another whom one has wronged.” “How have I wronged you?” demanded Lady Linton, in a startled tone, and wondering how much the woman knew. “I do not need to tell you. Your own conscience needs no other accuser than itself,” was the calm reply. “But it would have been far better had your ladyship constituted yourself my friend instead of my enemy.” “I could never be your friend. I shall be your foe to the bitter end, and it was to warn you of this that I detained you to-day. If you have come to London with the intention of thrusting yourself and your daughter upon my brother, let me tell you to beware! You are a divorced woman; you have no claim whatever upon Sir William Heath, and your child shall never be acknowledged by his name. I have vowed this, and I mean it. You may think it all an idle threat, but if you are in London one month from to-day it will be at your peril. I will ruin you. I will so shame and humiliate you that you will be glad to hide yourself from all who know you. I will do even worse if need be. Nothing shall hinder me from making sure work this time.” She was actually hoarse with passion as she concluded. “This time, Lady Linton? Then it was your work that other time. You acknowledge it?” said Mrs. Alexander, in a calm tone, and without a trace of excitement in either face or manner. She was as unruffled as when Lady Linton first met her; she had not even lost a vestige of color. All the change that was visible in her was a half-sorrowful light in her beautiful blue eyes, a grave, pitiful expression about her mouth. Lady Linton saw instantly that she had made a mistake; in her anger and hatred she had admitted more than was wise or prudent, and she grew very pale. “I acknowledge nothing; I only warn you,” she said, almost fiercely. “Lady Linton,” her companion answered composedly, “your threats do not move me; they cannot hurt me, and I fear they will but recoil upon your own head. Believe me, I would much rather be upon friendly terms with you. I feel more like forgiving the injuries of the past than cherishing hostile feelings. I could even at this moment take your hand—the hand that wrote such cruel things of me so many years ago—and say, ‘Let us be at peace;’ but you will not, and I must go my way and leave you to go yours, hoping that before it is too late for repentance to avail you anything, a better spirit may possess you.” “You defy me then?” said Lady Linton, through tightly closed teeth.