s desire?'

'His and mine. He was honest with me. It was better than such
discoveries when it would have been too late.'

'And he is going to marry her?'

'They were married an hour ago.'

Mrs. Baxendale looked with grave inquiry into Beatrice's face.
Incredulity was checked by what she saw there. She averted her eyes
again, and both were silent for awhile.

'So it is all well over, you see,' Beatrice said at length, trying at
light-heartedness.

'Over, it seems. As to the well or ill, I can't say.'

'Surely well,' rejoined Beatrice. 'He loves her, and he would never have
loved me. We can't help it. She has suffered dreadful things; you see it
in her face.'

'Her face?'

'I went to see her on Monday evening,' Beatrice explained, with
simplicity, though her lips quivered. 'I asked leave of Wilfrid to do
so; he had told me all her story, as he had just heard it from herself,
and I--indeed I was curious to see her again. Then there was another
reason. If I saw her and brought her to believe that Wilfrid and I were
merely intimate friends, as we used to be--how much easier it would make
everything. You understand me, aunt?'

Mrs. Baxendale was again looking at her with grave, searching eyes, eyes
which began to glimmer a little when the light caught them. Beatrice's
hand she held pressed more and more closely in both her own. She made no
reply to the last question, and the speaker went on with a voice which
lost its clearness, and seemed to come between parched lips.

'You see how easy that makes everything? I want your help, of course; I
told Wilfrid that this was how I should act. It is very simple; let us
say that I prefer to be thought an unselfish woman: anyone can be
jealous and malicious. You are to think that I care as little as it
would seem; I don't yet know how I am to live, but of course I shall, it
will come in time. It was better they should be married in this way.
Then he must come back after the holidays, and everything be smooth for
him. That will be our work, yours and mine, dear aunt. You understand
me? You will talk to Mrs. Birks; it will be better from you; and then
Mr. Athel shall be told. Yes, it is hard for me, but perhaps not quite
in the way you think. I don't hate her, indeed I don't. If you knew that
story, which you never can I No, I don't hate her. I kissed her, aunt,
with my lips--indeed. She couldn't find me out; I acted too well for
that. But I couldn't have done it if I had ha