th. She looked long at
that, for underneath it was written, "For our sins." Wickedness meant
sin. Standing there, her hand resting on the page, all the truth seemed
to come home to her. It would be a sin to cause disunion between husband
and wife; it would be a sin to cause the husband of another woman to
love her; it would be a sin to give way to the desire of vengeance that
was burning her heart away, and these words were so pathetic, "For our
sins." She had laid her face on that picture of the Crucifixion, and
burning tears fell from her eyes over it.

"God have mercy on me," she had prayed, "and save me from myself."

Then she had slept, and here was the morrow, a lovely summer day with
the air all fragrance, the birds all song, and she was still doing hard
battle with herself, for, as she had said to herself, hers was "a mad
love--a cruel, mad love."

And as she stood watching the distant hills, wondering if in the blue
sky that hung over them there was peace, a servant once more entered the
room, holding a card in her hand.

"Lady Chandos," said Leone, wonderingly; "ask her in here."

She looked in surprise, almost too great for words, at the little card.
Lance's wife, who had refused to speak to her, who had disdained to
touch her outstretched hand--Lance's wife coming to speak to her.

What could it mean? Were the whole race of the Lanswells coming to her?

The next moment a fair, sweet face was smiling into hers, a face she had
seen last darkened with anger, but which was fair and bright now, with
the light of a holy love.

Leone looked at her in amaze. What had happened? It looked as though a
new life, a new soul, had been given to Lady Marion. And hush, she was
speaking to her in a low, sweet voice, that thrilled through the great
singer like the softest cords from an Eolian harp.

"You are surprised to see me," Lady Marion was saying, "yet I have done
right in coming. All last night, while the stars were shining, I prayed
Heaven to tell me what it was best for me to do, and I shall always
think that the white-winged angels, who they say carry prayers to
Heaven, sent me to you. I refused to touch your hand the other day. Will
you give it to me now? Will you listen to me?"

Leone's whole heart and soul had risen in hot rebellion and fierce hate
against the Countess of Lanswell. They went out in sweetest love and
compassion to her fair faced rival now. The sweet voice went on:

"I cannot tell why I