ere is sometimes great evil done by that
selfishness which we call a just pride.

"While we were talking, I very earnestly, and she listening much
subdued, there entered Madame Blandin. At sight of her the evil spirit
awoke again in unhappy Christal. She did not speak, but I saw the
flaming of her eyes--the haughtiness of her gesture. It was not tempered
by the woman's half-insulting manner.

"'I am come to make one last offer to Mademoiselle--who will do well to
accept it, always with the advice of her English friend, or--whatever he
may be,' she added, smirking.

"'I have already told you, Madame, that I am a clergyman, and that this
young lady is my mother's friend,' said I, striving hard to restrain my
anger, by thinking of one for whom I ought and would endure all things.

"'Then Monsieur can easily explain the mystery about Mademoiselle
Christal; and she can accept the situation. For her talents I myself
will answer. It is merely requisite that she should be of Protestant
principles and of good parentage. Now, of course, the latter is no
difficulty with a young lady who was once so enthusiastic about her high
family.'

"Christal looked as if she could have sprung at her tormentor, and torn
her limb from limb. Then, turning deadly white, she gasped out, 'Take me
away; let me hide my head anywhere.'

"Madame Blandin began to make bitter guesses at the truth. I feared lest
she would drive the girl mad, or goad her on to the perpetration of
some horrible crime. I dared not leave her in the house another hour. A
thought struck me. 'Come, Christal!' I said, 'I will take you home with
me.'

"'Home with you! What then would they say of me--the cruel, malicious
world? I am beginning to be very wise in crime, you see!' and she
laughed frightfully. 'But it matters not what is done by my mother's
child. I will go.'

"'You shall,' I said, gravely, 'to the care of my friend, Lady Arundale.
It will be enough for her to hear that you come from Harbury, and are
known to me.'

"Christal resisted no more. I brought her to share the kindness of good
Lady Arundale, who needed no other guarantee than that it was a kindness
asked by me. Olive (may I begin to call you so? Acting as your brother,
I feel to have almost a right)--Olive, be at rest. To-night, ere I sat
down to write, I heard that your sister was quietly sleeping beneath
this hospitable roof. It will shelter her safely until some other plan
can be formed. I also f