"Hear me, and judge, Irene," said Elaine, creeping a little nearer, with a wistful gaze at the obstinate girl. "You, too, Mr. Kenmore. You have heard me taunted with my sin. Stay and hear my exculpation." He bowed silently and placed a chair for her; then he drew Irene down to a seat upon the sofa beside himself. She yielded with strange passiveness, unconscious that while she sat there his arm lay lightly but firmly around her waist, gently detaining her. She was conscious of nothing but a sharp, tearing pain at her heart, and that she was waiting with a sort of numb indifference to hear Elaine's palliation of her sin. Elaine sat silently a minute, with her white hands locked convulsively in her lap. When she spoke she seemed to be communing with herself. "Dear God," she whispered, "I had hoped that the child need never know her mother's secret! Ah, I might have known how hard and cruel Bertha would be some day!" She lifted her eyes and fixed them in a sort of unwilling fascination on Irene's beautiful, mutinous face. "I have lived years and years of sorrow and despair," she said, "but when I look back it seems only yesterday that I was a pretty, willful, loving child, such as Irene was until to-night. Ah, so like, so like, that I have sometimes shuddered and wept, fearing her fate would be like mine." Irene made a passionate gesture of loathing and dissent. "Ah, my child, you do not know," Elaine said, sadly. "The greatest temptation of woman has never come to you. You have never loved." The fresh, young lips curled in utter scorn of that master-passion whose fire had never breathed over her young heart. "You have never loved," Elaine repeated, with a gesture of despair. "When that master passion first came to me I was a younger girl than you, Irene, and just as willful and headstrong and passionate. Bertha and I were away at boarding-school when I first met my fate." She paused, trembling like a leaf in the wind, and resumed, mournfully: "He was a cousin of one of the pupils, and came to a musical festival given by us at the first of the mid-winter term. I sang one or two solos, and it was then and there that this handsome scion of a proud and wealthy house fell in love with me." "I have never loved as you say," interrupted Irene in her clear, bell-like voice, "but I should hesitate to call that feeling which only aims at the ruin of its object by the pure name of love." Elaine bowed her golden head wearily. "Let us say that he pretended to love me, then," she amended, sadly. "But, ah, Irene, if you had seen and heard him you would have believed his vows, too--you would have trusted in him as I did. No girl ever had a handsomer, more adoring lover."