ugh she would seek shelter in his arms and defy the world from that
place of security.

"Now let me have your story," said Browne. "Hide nothing from me; for
only when I know all, shall I be in a position to say how I am to help
you."

He felt a shudder sweep over her as he said this, and a considerable
interval elapsed before she replied. When she did her voice was harsh
and strained, as if she were nerving herself to make an admission,
which she would rather not have allowed to pass her lips.

"You cannot imagine," she said, "how it pains me to have to tell you my
pitiful tale. And yet I feel that I should be doing you a far greater
wrong if I were to keep silence. It is not for myself that I feel
this, but for you. Whatever may be my fate, whatever may come later, I
want you always to remember that."

"I will remember," her lover replied softly. "But you must not think
of me at all, dear. I am content to serve you. Now tell me
everything."

Once more she was silent for a few moments, as though she were
collecting her thoughts; then she commenced her tale.

CHAPTER XII

"To begin with, I must tell you that my name is not Petrovitch at all:
it is Polowski; Petrovitch was my mother's maiden name. Why I adopted
it, instead of bearing my father's, you will understand directly. I
was born in Warsaw, where my parents at the time had a temporary home.
Though she died when I was only seven years old, I can distinctly
remember my mother as a tall, beautiful Hungarian woman, who used to
sing me the sweetest songs I have ever heard in my life every evening
when I went to bed. Oh, how well I can recall those songs!" Her eyes
filled with tears at the recollection. "Then there came a time when
she did not put me to bed, and when I was not allowed to see her.
Night after night I cried for her, I remember, until one evening an old
woman, in whose charge I had often been left, when my father and mother
were absent from the city, told me that I should never see her again,
for she was dead. I did not know the meaning of death then; but I have
learnt since that there are things which are worse, infinitely worse,
than merely ceasing to live. My recollections of that period are not
very distinct; but I can recall the fact that my poor mother lay in a
room at the back of the house, and that old Maritza wept for her
continually. There was much mystery also; and once an old gray-haired
man said to some one in my