against hope, and now, since she had an opportunity to speak,
she still tried to move this obdurate heart.

"Hate!" she exclaimed, catching at his last word--"hate! what is
that? the fitful, spitefull feeling arising out of the recollection
of one miserable scene--or perhaps out of the madness of anger at a
forced marriage. What is it? One kind word can dispel it."

As she said this she did not look up. Her face was buried in her
hands. Her tone was half despairing, half imploring, and broken by
emotion.

"True," said Lord Chetwynde. "All that I have thought of, and I used
to console myself with that. I used to say to myself, 'When we meet
again it will be different. When she knows me she can not hate me.'"

"You were right," faltered Hilda, with a sob which was almost a
groan. "And what then? Say--was it a wonder that I should have felt
hate? Was there ever any one so tried as I was? My father was my only
friend. He was father and mother and all the world to me. He was
brought home one day suddenly, injured by a frightful accident, and
dying. At that unparalleled moment I was ordered to prepare for
marriage. Half crazed with anxiety and sorrow, and anticipating the
very worst--at such a time death itself would have been preferable to
that ceremony. But all my feelings were outraged, and I was dragged
down to that horrible scene. Can you not see what effect the
recollection of this might afterward have? Can you not once again
make allowances, and think those thoughts which you used to think?
Can you not still see that you were right in supposing that when we
might meet all would be different, and that she who might once have
known you could not hate you?"

"No," said Lord Chetwynde, coldly and severely.

Hilda raised her head, and looked at him with mute inquiry.

"I will explain," said Lord Chetwynde. "I have already said all that
I ought to say; but you force me to say more, though I am unwilling.
Your letters, Lady Chetwynde, were the things which quelled and
finally killed all kindly feelings."

"Letters!" burst in Hilda, with eager vehemence. "They were the
letters of a hot-tempered girl, blinded by pique and self-conceit,
and carelessly indulging in a foolish spite which in her heart she
did not seriously feel."

"Pardon me," said Lord Chetwynde, with cold politeness, "I think you
are forgetting the circumstances under which they were written--for
this must be considered as well as the nature of the com