ord from me that I
wanted no more of him. How could he have believed it? Well, the remorse
of it has gone far to kill her. If she was ever trying, it was because
she had to take benefits from the woman she had wronged. Poor unhappy
Joan! She died in great love and peace with me."

Fortunately, this time she did not look me in the eyes. Such magnanimity
was beyond me.

"It is very sweet to know," she went on dreamily, "that poor Luke came
to me in his need. He knew he could trust my love. But he ought to have
known me better than to believe I could send that message. He ought to
have known me better."

"Yes," I said, "he ought to have known you better."

CHAPTER XXIX

THE SICKNESS

It was while I was still at Castle Clody that a message came to me one
morning saying that some one desired to speak with me; and when I went
out into the hall I found it was Nora Brady. She had a little crimson
shawl over her head, and as she lifted her eyes to me her beauty came to
me like a new thing. There was dry snow in the wind, and a few flakes of
it showed on her dark curls, which lay ring on ring under the shawl. Her
face was round and soft as a child's, and the innocence of her blue,
black-lashed eyes as she lifted them to me was as unsullied as though
she were three years old. She had lost her pretty colour, but the
gentleness which made her beauty appealing was, if possible, greater
than of old.

"You wanted to speak to me, Nora," I said.

I know I turned red and pale when her eyes met mine; for the moment all
social differences and distinctions ceased to be. I was going to marry
the man Nora loved, the man I loathed. I had a feeling that it was an
intolerable wrong.

"If you please, Miss Bawn," she said.

The servants were passing up and down the staircase. I did not want any
witnesses to our interview, nor any eavesdroppers.

"Come in here, Nora," I said, opening the door of the morning-room which
I usually had to myself for an hour or so after breakfast. "And how is
the child? Better, I hope."

"Little Katty is quite well again, Miss Bawn, and I've come to tell you,
please Miss Bawn, that I'd rather not come back. 'Tisn't that I'm
ungrateful, Miss. No young lady could be kinder and better than you. But
my uncle is going to marry again, and if you please, Miss Bawn, I think
I should like to go to America."

"Don't go to America, Nora," I said; "it's a terrible place. I'll look
after you. I'll speak to M