t were only myself I would be glad to die, so that if my
husband loves you best he might marry you, but it is for my little
child. Do you know that when I say to myself, 'Lance's little child,'
the words seem to me sweeter than the sweetest music."

But the beautiful woman who had been no wife, turned deadly pale as she
listened to the words. She held up her hand with a terrible cry.

"For Heaven's sake, hush," she said hoarsely, "I cannot bear it!"

For one minute it was as though she had been turned to stone. Her heart
seemed clutched by a cold, iron hand. The next, she had recovered
herself and raised Lady Marion, making her rest, and trying to still the
trembling of the delicate frame.

"You must calm yourself," she said. "I have listened to you, now will
you listen to me?"

"Yes; but, madame, you will be good to me--you will not let my husband
leave me? We shall be happy, I am sure, when he knows; we shall forget
all this sorrow and this pain. He will be to me the same as he was
before your beautiful face dazed him. Ah, madame, you will not let him
leave me."

"I should be a murderess if I did," she said, in a low voice.

Her face was whiter than the face of the dead. She stood quite silent
for a few minutes. In her heart, like a death-knell, sounded the words:

"Lance's little child."

Whiter and colder grew the beautiful face; more mute and silent the
beautiful lips; then suddenly she said:

"Kiss me, Lady Marion, kiss me with your lips; now place your hands in
mine. I promise you that I will not take your husband from you; that he
shall not go to Berlin, either with me or after me. I promise
you--listen and believe me--that I will never see or speak to your
husband again, and this I do for the sake of Lance's little child."

"I believe you," said Lady Marion, the light deepening in her sweet eyes
and on her fair face. "I believe you, and from the depth of my heart I
thank you. We shall be happy, I am sure."

"In the midst of your happiness will you remember me?" asked Leone,
gently.

"Always, as my best, dearest and truest friend," said Lady Marion; and
they parted that summer morning never to meet again until the water
gives up its dead.

Lady Marion drove home with a smile on her fair face, such as had not
been seen there before. It would all come right.

She believed in Madame Vana's simple words as in the pledge of another.
How it would be managed she did not know--did not think; but madame