ks.

"I do not like to tell you," she said simply. "It would not be a
pleasant thing for you to hear, if it be not true."

"And still less pleasant for me, if it be true," he replied, the words
bringing him conviction that the rumour they had heard was correct. "I
fear it is true, Lucy."

"That--some one--has come back?"

"Some one who was supposed to be dead."

The avowal seemed to take from her all hope. Her hands fell listlessly
by her side, and the tears rose to her eyes. "I am so sorry!" she
breathed. "I am so sorry for you, and for--for----"

"My wife. Is that what you were going to say?"

"Yes, it is. I did not like much to say it. I am truly grieved. I wish I
could have helped it!"

"Ah! you are not a fairy with an all-powerful wand yet, Lucy, as we read
of in children's books. It is a terrible blow, for her and for me. Do
you know how the rumour reached my mother?"

"I think it was through the servants. Some of them heard it, and old
Catherine told her. Lady Verner has been like any one wild; but for
Decima, she would have started----"

Lucy's voice died away. Gliding in at the door, with a white face and
drawn-back lips, was Lady Verner. She caught hold of Lionel, her eyes
searching his countenance for the confirmation of her fears, or their
contradiction. Lionel took her hands in his.

"It is true, mother. Be brave, for my sake."

With a wailing cry she sat down on the sofa, drawing him beside her.
Decima entered and stood before them, her hands clasped in pain. Lady
Verner made him tell her all the particulars; all he knew, all he
feared.

"How does Sibylla meet it?" was her first question when she had listened
to the end.

"Not very well," he answered, after a momentary hesitation. "Who could
meet it well?" "Lionel, it is a judgment upon her. She--"

Lionel started up, his brow flushing.

"I beg your pardon, mother. You forget that you are speaking of my wife.
She _is_ my wife," he more calmly added, "until she shall have been
proved not to be."

No. Whatever may have been Sibylla's conduct to him personally, neither
before her face nor behind her back, would Lionel forget one jot of the
respect due to her. Or suffer another to forget it; although that other
should be his mother.

"What shall you do with her, Lionel?"

"Do with her?" he repeated, not understanding how to take the question.

"When the man makes himself known?"

"I am content to leave that to the time," replied Lio