“Oh no, pray don’t, dear,” said Maggie. “I’ll go to him myself to-morrow, and tell him that you wish Philip to come. I’ve thought before of asking him to absolve me from my promise, but I’ve not had the courage to determine on it.” They were both silent for some moments, and then Lucy said,— “Maggie, you have secrets from me, and I have none from you.” Maggie looked meditatively away from Lucy. Then she turned to her and said, “I _should_ like to tell you about Philip. But, Lucy, you must not betray that you know it to any one—least of all to Philip himself, or to Mr Stephen Guest.” The narrative lasted long, for Maggie had never before known the relief of such an outpouring; she had never before told Lucy anything of her inmost life; and the sweet face bent toward her with sympathetic interest, and the little hand pressing hers, encouraged her to speak on. On two points only she was not expansive. She did not betray fully what still rankled in her mind as Tom’s great offence,—the insults he had heaped on Philip. Angry as the remembrance still made her, she could not bear that any one else should know it at all, both for Tom’s sake and Philip’s. And she could not bear to tell Lucy of the last scene between her father and Wakem, though it was this scene which she had ever since felt to be a new barrier between herself and Philip. She merely said, she saw now that Tom was, on the whole, right in regarding any prospect of love and marriage between her and Philip as put out of the question by the relation of the two families. Of course Philip’s father would never consent. “There, Lucy, you have had my story,” said Maggie, smiling, with the tears in her eyes. “You see I am like Sir Andrew Aguecheek. _I_ was adored once.” “Ah, now I see how it is you know Shakespeare and everything, and have learned so much since you left school; which always seemed to me witchcraft before,—part of your general uncanniness,” said Lucy. She mused a little with her eyes downward, and then added, looking at Maggie, “It is very beautiful that you should love Philip; I never thought such a happiness would befall him. And in my opinion, you ought not to give him up. There are obstacles now; but they may be done away with in time.” Maggie shook her head. “Yes, yes,” persisted Lucy; “I can’t help being hopeful about it. There is something romantic in it,—out of the common way,—just what everything that happens to you ought to be. And Philip will adore you like a husband in a fairy tale. Oh, I shall puzzle my small brain to contrive some plot that will bring everybody into the right mind, so that you may marry Philip when I marry—somebody else. Wouldn’t that be a pretty ending to all my poor, poor Maggie’s troubles?” Maggie tried to smile, but shivered, as if she felt a sudden chill. “Ah, dear, you are cold,” said Lucy. “You must go to bed; and so must I. I dare not think what time it is.”