She stared at him aghast, the momentary hopefulness fading from her face. “Do not look at me like that--I could not move him!” he said, imploringly. “Come, be reasonable, my child. You did not expect him to forgive you all at once, did you?” “No,” she faltered. “And you were right,” he answered, reluctant to pain her, but knowing that her heart must be probed still further ere it might be healed. “Cecil is very proud, you know, and he finds it hard to forgive your deceit. He thinks he is only to marry you again for the sake of the child that is coming to bear his name, but I am sure that underneath the crust of his anger and resentment his love for you lives yet.” Her head drooped sadly to her breast, and she sighed heavily while he continued: “It must be your task, my sister, to win this wounded heart back to you. Cecil is hard and proud, but he is just. When he sees your remorse and repentance he will be sorry for you, he will pity you, and with the coming of your child the cloud will pass from your lives, and you will be happy again.” He spoke more sanguinely than he had cause to speak, but he believed that unless he could whisper some hope and comfort to that crushed heart, it must break beneath the weight of its shame and sorrow. And he was right, for as he ceased speaking she lifted her bowed head, and said, with a faint, wavering smile: “God bless you for your prophecy, my noble brother! Ah, if the deepest devotion woman ever felt can melt his proud heart, I will lay that devotion at his feet and plead with him for pardon and love.” CHAPTER XXXI. If Cecil had been angry with his wife when he first entered the house, his interview with his mother did not tend to lessen his resentment. She told him at once the story she had heard from Louise Barry relative to her summary ejectment from the house. “Did you hear of anything so low, so ill-bred?” she exclaimed. And the fastidious Cecil shuddered. “And to think that this ill-natured, treacherous creature was your wife--will be your wife again! Oh, Cecil, is it necessary, do you think, this sacrifice of yourself?” “Mother!” That word and the stern glance of his proud blue eyes made her quail. He looked wan, wasted, wretched. She had never seen her handsome Cecil look so ill, and it made her wrath all the more bitter against her who had caused it, but she dared say no more, for he went on, rebukingly: “I hardly expected this from you, my mother. Say that she deserves no mercy for her treachery to poor John Keith and to me, and I will agree with you; but you must be aware--Charley says he told you--that there is another question involved now--a point of honor.” “Unfortunately, yes,” she answered, sighing. He went on, with grave seriousness: