him in his last
illness, and heard his last words. His dying eyes were fixed on me!"

As Hilda said this a sharp shudder passed through her.

"No," said Lord Chetwynde, "I have nothing to ask--nothing from
_you_! Your last letter has quelled all desire. I would rather remain
in ignorance, and know nothing of the last words of him whom I so
loved than ask of _you_."

"He called me his daughter. He loved me," said Hilda, in a broken
voice.

"And yet you were capable of turning away from his death-bed and
writing that letter to his son. You did it coolly and remorselessly."

"It was the anguish of bereavement and despair."

"No; it was the malignancy of the Evil One. Nothing else could have
prompted those hideous sneers. In real sorrow sneering is the last
thing that one thinks of. But enough. I do not wish to speak in this
way to a lady. Yet to you I can speak in no other way. I will
therefore retire."

And, with a bow, Lord Chetwynde withdrew.

Hilda looked after him, as he left, with staring eyes, and with a
face as pallid as that of a corpse. She rose to her feet. Her hands
were clenched tight.

"He loves another," she groaned; "otherwise he never, never, never
could have been so pitiless!"

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

SETTING THE DOG ON THE LION'S TRACK.

After this failure in the effort to come to an understanding with
Lord Chetwynde, Hilda sank into despondency. She scarcely knew what
there was to be done when such an appeal as this had failed. She had
humbled herself in the dust before him--she had manifested
unmistakably her love, yet he had disregarded all. After this what
remained? It was difficult to say. Yet, for herself, she still looked
forward to the daily meeting with him: glad of this, since fate would
give her nothing better. The change which had come over her was not
one which could be noticed by the servants, so that there was no
chance of her secret being discovered by them; but there was another
at Chetwynde Castle who very quickly discovered all, one who was led
to this perhaps by the sympathy of his own feelings. There was that
secret within his own heart which made him watchful and attentive and
observant. No change in her face and manner, however slight, could
fail to be noticed by this man, who treasured up every varying
expression of hers within his heart. And this change which had come
over her was one which affected him by much more than the mere
variation of features. It e