and to linger on in
life--how long is uncertain; but the shock to her nerves she will never
fully recover from--while she lives she will be a victim to nervousness.
But I do not think she will live long. Let her have as much cheerful
society as possible, without fatigue; nothing more can be done for her."

And with that they were obliged to be content. Lady Hampton would not
admit that the London physician was correct.

"Nerves are all nonsense," she said, brusquely. "How many nervous
shocks have I been through, with husband dead and children dead?
Elinor's only danger is her mother's complaint. She died of consumption
quite young."

It was found, however, despite Lady Hampton's disbelief, that the London
physician had spoken truthfully. Lady Darrell rose from her sick bed,
but she was but the shadow of herself, and a victim to a terrible
nervous disorder.

Miss Hastings watched over her with great anxiety, but Pauline was like
a second self to the unhappy lady. They were speaking of her one day,
and Miss Hastings said:

"An illness like Lady Darrell's is so uncertain, Pauline; you must not
occupy yourself with her so entirely, or you will lose your own health."

But Pauline looked up with a smile--perhaps the gravest, the sweetest
and most tender her face had ever worn.

"I shall never leave her," she returned.

"Never leave her?" questioned Miss Hastings.

"No. I shall stay with her to comfort her while life lasts, and that
will be my atonement."

CHAPTER XLII.

LOVE AND SORROW.

The beautiful golden summer came round, and Darrell Court looked
picturesque and lovely with its richness of foliage and flush of
flowers. The great magnolia trees were all in bloom--the air was full of
their delicate, subtle perfume; the chestnuts were in bloom, the limes
all in blossom. Sweet summer had scattered her treasures with no niggard
hand; and Lady Darrell had lived to see the earth rejoice once more.

Under the limes, where the shadows of the graceful, tremulous, scented
leaves fell on the grass--the limes that were never still, but always
responding to some half-hidden whisper of the wind--stood Pauline
Darrell and her lover, Sir Vane St. Lawrence. They had met but once
since their hurried parting at Omberleigh. Vane had been to Darrell
Court--for their engagement was no secret now. They wrote to each other
constantly.

On this fair June day Sir Vane had come to the Court with news that
stirred the dept