"Oh, mother, I was hard, cold, cruel to you that night in my madness," she cried. "I, who shadowed your life with an ever-present memory of shame for sixteen years, now owe you reparation and atonement even to the sacrifice of my poor life." And in the solemn, mystical midnight hours the great battle was fought between self-pity and mother-love. CHAPTER XXVIII. It was late when Irene came down to breakfast the next morning. The breakfast bell had clanged noisily twice, and all the other inmates of the villa were in their places at the table, when Miss Berlin glided in, pale, mute, grave, and took her wonted seat by Mrs. Leslie's side. Every eye turned curiously on the fair young face. The change was too marked to escape observation. The white cheeks, the dark shadows beneath the eyes, the pathetic droop of the red lips, all had a story of their own. The simple white morning-dress, with the black velvet ribbon at throat and waist was sad and suggestive too. All missed the bright bunch of flowers she was wont to wear on her breast, but none guessed that the simple black and white were mute tokens of bereavement. "I was sorry to hear of your illness last night. I trust you are better this morning," said Mr. Stuart from his place as host. His voice was grave and kind, but his eyes were kinder. They often lingered on her as if fascinated, until, with a sharp sigh of pain he would turn away. "Thank you, I am better," she replied, briefly, and dropped the long lashes over her eyes because Julius Revington was trying to meet them across the table. He was vexed with her for looking so pale, so wan, so unhappy. "Am I an ogre that she should look so pale, so ill, so wretched, at the bare idea of having me for a husband?" he said to himself, in a passionate ebullition of wounded vanity. When breakfast was over he managed to intercept her as she was going out. "It is a beautiful morning, Miss Berlin. Will you walk out with me?" he asked, pleadingly. She brought her broad-brimmed sun-hat from the rack in the hall and silently accompanied him. It was a beautiful morning, as he had said. The sun shone brilliantly, the blue sky mirrored itself in the blue river, birds sang, flowers bloomed, and the air was sweet with the breath of roses. But for once Irene was indifferent to the sweet influences of nature. She walked along silently by his side, her blue eyes downcast, her face pale, her steps slow and languid. They paused at last to rest on a pretty garden seat beside the murmuring river. Irene flung herself down wearily. She, who seldom knew what weakness meant, could barely drag her weary limbs along. "I am sorry to see you looking so ill to-day," murmured the lover. She glanced up quickly in his face for some sign of relenting. Alas, his passionate look of admiration dispelled the sudden, springing hope. Her heart sank heavily again.