ove. He had been
too wary for that. Moreover there was her own solemn protestations to
her sister Lydia that there _was not_ anything between her and Francis
Levison; who would believe her if she veered round now, and avowed these
protestations were false? No; she found that she was in a sinking ship;
one there was no chance of saving.

But one chance did she determine to try--an appeal to Alice. Blanche
Challoner's eyes were suddenly and rudely opened to the badness of the
man, and she was aware now how thoroughly unfit he was to become the
husband of her sister. It struck her that only misery could result from
the union, and that, if possible, Alice should be saved from entering
upon it. Would she have married him herself, then? Yes. But it was a
different thing for that fair, fresh young Alice; _she_ had not wasted
her life's best years in waiting for him.

When the family had gone to rest, and the house was quiet, Blanche
Challoner proceeded to her sister's bedroom. Alice had not begun to
undress; she was sitting in a comfortable chair before the fire, her
feet on the fender, reading a love letter from Sir Francis.

"Alice, I am come to tell you a story," she said quietly. "Will you hear
it?"

"In a minute. Stop a bit," replied Alice. She finished the perusal
of the letter, put it aside, and then spoke again. "What did you say,
Blanche? A story?"

Blanche nodded. "Several years ago there was a fair young girl, none too
rich, in our station of life. A gentleman, who was none too rich either,
sought and gained her love. He could not marry; he was not rich, I say.
They loved on in secret, hoping for better times, she wearing out her
years and her heart. Oh, Alice! I cannot describe to you how she loved
him--how she has continued to love him up to this moment. Through evil
report she clung to him tenaciously and tenderly as the vine clings to
its trellis, for the world spoke ill of him."

"Who was the young lady?" interrupted Alice. "Is this a fable of
romance, Blanche, or a real history?"

"A real history. I knew her. All those years--years and years, I say--he
kept leading her on to love, letting her think that his love was hers.
In the course of time he succeeded to a fortune, and the bar to their
marriage was over. He was abroad when he came into it, but returned home
at once; their intercourse was renewed, and her fading heart woke up
once more to life. Still, the marriage did not come on; he said nothing