rom the thought of this unhappy
creature. How could it be otherwise with her mother's child? Still,
amidst all, she was touched by the love of this other most wretched
mother, who--living and dying--had renounced her maternal claim; and
impressed upon her daughter's mind a feigned story, rather than let the
brand of illegitimate birth rest upon the poor innocent.

Suddenly she heard from the next room Christal's happy, unconscious
voice, singing merrily.

"My sister!" Olive gasped. "She is my sister--my father's child."

And there came upon her, in a flood of mingled compassion and fear, all
that Christal would feel when she came to know the truth! Christal--so
proud of her birth--her position--whose haughty nature, inherited from
both father and mother, had once struggled wrathfully against Olive's
mild control. Such a blow as this would either crush her to the earth,
or, rousing up the demon in her, drive her to desperation. Thinking
thus, Olive forgot everything in pity for the hapless girl;--everything,
save an awe-struck sense of the crime, which, as its necessary
consequence, entailed such misery from generation to generation.

It seemed most strange that Christal had lived for so many years,
cherishing her blind belief, nay, not even seeking to investigate it
when it lay in her power. For since the day she returned from France,
she had never questioned Miss Vanbrugh, nor alluded to the subject of
her parentage. Such indifference seemed incredible, and could only be
accounted for by Christal's light, careless nature, her haughtiness, or
her utter ignorance of the world.

What was Olive to do? Was she to reveal the truth, and thus blast for
ever this dawning life, so full of hope? Was her hand to place the
stigma of shame on the brow of this young creature?--a girl too! There
might come a time when some proud, honourable man, however loving, would
scruple to take to his bosom as a wife, one--whose mother had never
owned that name. But then--was Olive to fix on herself the perpetual
burden of this secret--the continual dread of its betrayal--the doubt,
lest one day, chance might bring it to Christal's knowledge, perhaps
when the girl would no longer be shielded by a sister's protection, or
comforted by a sister's love?

While she struggled in this conflict, she heard a voice at the door.

"Olive--Olive!"--the tone was more affectionate than usual. "Are you
never coming? I am quite tired of being alone. Do let