"Sit down, Lucy, while you listen to me," he said, placing her in a chair. "I must disclose somewhat of this to you, but it cannot be much." Remaining standing himself, he told her what he could. It was a most arduous task to speak at all, from the difficulties that surrounded it. A great and unexpected misfortune had fallen upon him, he said; one that from its nature he might not further allude to. It would take away a good deal of his substance; it ought in short to debar his marriage with her. He went on to tell of the conflict he had passed through, as to whether he should quit her or not, and of his final resolve to disclose so much to her, and to leave with her the decision. If she decided against him, he would invent some other plea to Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve for breaking off the marriage; or let the act appear to come from her, as she should will. If she decided for him, why then---- "Tell me one thing, Karl," she said as he broke down. "Has this matter had its rise in any dishonour or ill-doing of yours?" "No," was the emphatic rejoinder. "I am as innocent in it, and until a day or two ago, was as unconscious of it as you can be. You need not fear that, Lucy." "Then on your part you need not have doubted me, Karl," she said, the glad tears rising to her eyes with the intensity of her relief. "It was cruel of you to think of a separation now. I am yours." "Lucy, look fully into the future. At least as fully as these indefinite words of mine will admit of. I hope--I trust--that no further complication may come of it; that it may be never known to the world. But it may, and probably will, be otherwise. A great calamity may fall upon us; in the world's eyes we should both be dishonoured--_dishonoured_, Lucy; I through others, you through me." "I am yours; yours for all time," was the reiterated answer. "Very well, Lucy. So be it. But, my darling, if that blow should fall, you may repent of your marriage with me. I know your parents would repent it for you." "Hush, Karl!" she whispered, rising from her seat to the arms opening to receive her. "_I_ repent? That can never be. My dearest friend, my almost husband, I am yours for weal or for woe. Have you forgotten the vows I shall take to you to-morrow in the sight of God? For richer for poorer, for better for worse." "God bless you, Lucy! May God bless and protect us both." And as Sir Karl held her to him, his frame shook with its own emotion, and a scalding tear fell on her face from an aching heart. The second week in March, just as nearly as possible a month after the marriage, Sir Karl Andinnian received at Florence, where he and his wife were staying, a telegram from Hewitt at Foxwood. It stated that Mrs. Andinnian was ill with some kind of fever; it had taken a dangerous turn, and her life might be a question of a few hours.