But Zillah rapidly roused herself. It was no soft mood that was over her now; it was not a broken heart that was now threatening her. This letter seemed to throw a flood of light over her dark and mysterious persecution, which in an instant put an end to all those tender longings after her loved Hilda which had consumed her. Now her eyes flashed, and the color which had left her cheeks flushed hack again, mounting high with the full sweep of her indignant passion. She started to her feet, her hands clenched, and her brows frowning darkly. "You are right," she said to Obed, in a low, stern voice. "I am betrayed--and she--_she alone_ has been my betrayer. She! my sister! the one who lived on my father's bounty; who was my companion in childhood; who shared my bed; who had all my love and trust--she has betrayed me! Ah, well," she added, with a long sigh; "since it is so, it is best for me to know it. Do not be grieved, dear friends. Do not look so sadly and so tenderly at me. I know your loving hearts. You, at least, do not look as though you believed me to be an impostor." And she held out her hands to the brother and sister. Obed took that little hand which she extended, and pressed it reverently to his lips. "Sit down, my poor child," said Miss Chute, tenderly. "You are excited. Try to be calm, if you can." "I am calm, and I will be calm," said Zillah, faintly. "Come," said Obed. "We will talk no more about it now. To-morrow, or next day, or next week, we will talk about it. You must rest. You must drive out, or sail out, or do something. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll order the yacht and take you to Salerno." Zillah looked at him with a faint smile, appreciating his well-meant reference to that famous town, and Obed left her with his sister. A week passed, and Zillah was not allowed to speak of this subject. But all the time she was oppressed by a sense of her utterly desperate situation. As long as she had believed herself rich she had not felt altogether helpless; but now!--now she found herself a pauper, alone in the wide world, a dependent on the kindness of these noble-hearted friends. What could she do? This could not go on forever. What could she do--she, a girl without resources? How could she ever support herself? What would become of her? Could she go back to that home from which she had fled? Never! That thought came once, and was instantly scouted as impossible. Sooner than do that she would die of starvation. What, then, could she do? Live on as a burden to these kind friends? Alas! how could she? She thought wildly of being a governess; but what could she teach?--she, who had idled away nearly all her life. Then she thought of trying to get back her money from those who had robbed her. But how could this be done?