d in time of
anxiety, to pace up and down the room.

"I had forgotten her claim," he said. "I can not tell what to do,
mother. It would be a cruel, unmerited slight to pass her over, but I
do not wish to see her. I have fought a hard battle with my feelings,
but I can not bring myself to see her."

"Yet you loved her very much once," said Lady Helena.

"I did," he replied, gently. "Poor Dora."

"It is an awful thing to live at enmity with any one," said Lady
Helena--"but with one's own wife! I can not understand it, Ronald."

"You mistake, mother," he said, eagerly; "I am not at enmity with Dora.
She offended me--she hurt my honor--she pained me in a way I can never
forget."

"You must forgive her some day," replied Lady Earle; "why not now?"

"No," he said, sadly. "I know myself--I know what I can do and what I
can not do. I could take my wife in my arms, and kiss her face--I
could not live with her. I shall forgive her, mother, when all that is
human is dying away from me. I shall forgive her in the hour of death."

Chapter XXXVIII

Lillian Earle was no tragedy queen. She never talked about sacrifice
or dying, but there was in her calm, gentle nature a depth of endurance
rarely equaled. She had never owned, even to herself, how dearly she
loved Lionel Dacre--how completely every thought and hope was centered
in him. Since she had first learned to care for him, she had never
looked her life in the face and imagined what it would be without him.

It never entered her mind to save herself at the expense of her sister;
the secret had been intrusted to her, and she could not conceive the
idea of disclosing it. If the choice had been offered her between
death and betraying Beatrice, she would have chosen death, with a
simple consciousness that she was but doing her duty.

So, when Lionel uttered those terrible words--when she found that he
had seen her--she never dreamed of freeing herself from blame, and
telling the story of her sister's fault. His words were bitterly
cruel; they stung her with sharp pain. She had never seen contempt or
scorn before on that kindly, honest face; now, she read both. Yet,
what could she do? Her sister's life lay in her hands, and she must
guard it.

Therefore, she bore the cruel taunts, and only once when the fear of
losing him tortured her, cried out for pity and trust. But he had no
trust; he stabbed her gentle heart with his fierce words, he seared her