"But I do not repent!" cried Laurel desperately. "I shall never repent while I remain with St. Leon. I am too happy, in spite of my fears, for sorrow or repentance. When I am torn away from him, when I have lost his love, then I shall repent, then I shall understand the depths of my dreadful sin; but never before!" They looked at her in wonder. They could not understand her. Surely she was mad--the glamour of passion had obscured her reason! "And when the end comes--when he has put you from him--what will you do then, poor child!" asked Beatrix, slowly. "Then I shall die," the beautiful girl answered, despairingly. And again they did not know what to say to her. She had no thoughts outside of this love that she held by so slight a thread. She could see nothing beyond it but death. Beatrix could not help feeling vexed with her. She loved her own young husband with a fond, romantic love, but she could not comprehend the madness of Laurel's devotion. "It is not so easy to die, Laurel," she said, impatiently. "You are a woman now, and you must not answer me like a child. Your sin will find you out some day, and you will perhaps be cast adrift on the world. You should have some plans formed for that time." There was a moment's silence; then Laurel murmured, tremblingly: "St. Leon loves me--perhaps he will forgive me." Clarice Wells gave an audible sigh from her corner. Beatrix murmured, "Poor child!" And the mistress and maid looked at each other in silence a moment. They did not know how to deal with this nature. Both wondered in themselves if St. Leon Le Roy would indeed forgive her falsehood. They did not think so. Beatrix toyed nervously with the tassels of her pale-blue morning dress. "Laurel," she said, after a moment. "Clarice and I have formed a plan for you. We do not want to betray you to your husband. We think it would be better it you confessed the truth to him yourself." They never forgot how deathly white she grew, nor how wild and frightened the dark eyes looked. She threw out her hands as if to ward off a blow. "Confess to St. Leon? Why, I would sooner die!" she gasped. "But, my dear child," remonstrated Beatrix, "he would be far more likely to forgive you if you confessed to him yourself than if I betrayed you." "You will not do that, oh, you will not do that! You could not be so cruel!" gasped Laurel, throwing herself impulsively at Beatrix's feet. "Oh, Mrs. Wentworth, I helped _you_ to happiness! Do not rob me of mine!" Clarice raised her gently and replaced her in her seat.