timidly.

"Kind?" said her mother, with a sigh. "Oh, yes, perhaps he was kind--at
first. Until he was tired of me, or I was tired of him. I don't know on
which side the disillusion was felt first. Think where I came from--from
the dear old Castle, the moors, the lochs, the free fresh air of
Scotland, to a dreary lodging of two little rooms in a dingy street,
where I had to cut and contrive and economize to make ends meet. I was
an ignorant girl, and I could not do it. I got into debt, and my husband
was angry with me. Why should I tell you the petty, sordid details of my
life? I soon found out that I was miserable and that he was miserable
too."

Lesley listened breathlessly with hidden face. The story was full of
humiliation for her. It seemed like a desecration of all that she had
hitherto held dear.

"My father and my friends would not forgive me," Lady Alice went on. "In
our direst straits of poverty, I am glad to say that I never appealed to
them. We struggled on together--your father and I--until you were four
years old. Then a change came--a change which made it impossible for me
to bear the misery of my life. Your father----"

She came to a sudden stop, and sat with eyes fixed on the opposite wall,
a curious expression of mingled desolation and contempt upon her cold,
clear-cut face. For some reason or other Lesley felt afraid to hear what
her mother had to say.

"Mamma, don't tell me! Don't look like that," she cried. "I can't bear
to hear it! Why need you tell me any more?"

"Because," said her mother, slowly, "because your father exacts this
sacrifice from me: that I should tell you--_you_, my daughter--the
reason why I left him. I promised that I would do so, and I will keep my
promise. The thing that hurts me most, Lesley, is to think that I may be
injuring you--staining your innocence--darkening your youth--by telling
you what I have to tell. At your age, I would rather that you knew
nothing of life but its brighter side--nothing of love but what was fair
and sweet. But it is the punishment of my first false step that I should
bring sorrow upon my child. Lesley, in years to come remember that I
have warned you to be honest and true, unless you would make those
miserable whom you love best. If I had never deceived my father, my
husband would never perhaps have deceived me; and I should not have to
tell my child that the last person in the world whom she must trust is
her father."

There was a litt