"John is neither well nor happy," she said, aloud. "I think, Vera, you must know the reason of it better than any of us." "It is my fault--my doing," cried the girl, with a ring of deep regret in her voice. "Yes," she added, looking away sadly out of the open window; "that is why I have come. Do you know that I saw him once? I don't think he saw me--it was in the Park one morning. He looked so aged, so saddened, I realized then what I had done--his face haunts me." "Vera, you could alter all that if you chose," said the old lady, earnestly. A sudden flush sprang to her face; she looked startled. "You don't suppose I came here to say _that_, Lady Kynaston?" "No, my dear; but I have decided to say it to you. Vera, I entreat you to tell me the truth. What is it that stands between you and John?" She was silent, looking down upon her hands that lay crossed one over the other upon her knee. "I cannot tell you, Lady Kynaston," she answered, at length, in a low voice. Lady Kynaston sighed; she was a little disappointed. "And you cannot, marry him?" Vera shook her head. "No, it would not be right." The old lady bent forward and laid her hand upon her visitor's arm. "Forgive me for asking you. Do you love some one else? is it that?" She bent her head silently. "Have you any hopes of marrying the man you love?" "Oh no, none--not the slightest," she said, hurriedly; "I shall never marry." "Then, Vera, will you listen to an old woman's advice?" "Yes, dear Lady Kynaston." "My dear, if you cannot marry the man you love, put him out of your mind." "I must do that in any case," she said, wearily.