us of a strange feeling of attraction toward her, a
sort of unexplained affinity which women in trouble or distress often
feel for one another, but which the sterner fiber of man's nature rarely
admits of. She moved impulsively forward, and stretched out her hands in
mute invitation, but there was no response. If anything, indeed, her
visitor seemed to shrink a little away from her.

"You ask me who I am," she said softly. "I am Sir Allan Beaumerville's
wife; I am Bernard Maddison's mother."

Helen sank back upon her chair, perfectly helpless. This thing was too
much for her to grasp. She looked up at the woman who had spoken these
marvelous words, half frightened, altogether bewildered.

"You are Sir Allan Beaumerville's wife," she repeated slowly. "I do not
understand; I never knew that he was married. And Bernard Maddison his
son!"

Helen sat quite still for a moment. Then light began to stream in upon
her darkened understanding. Suddenly she sprang to her feet.

"Who was it? then, who killed--Oh, my God, I see it all now. It was----"

She ceased, and looked at her visitor with blanched cheeks. A low,
tremulous cry of horror broke from Lady Beaumerville's white lips. Her
calmness seemed gone. She was trembling from head to foot.

"God help him! it was my husband who killed Sir Geoffrey Kynaston," she
cried; "and the sin is on my head."

Helen was scarcely less agitated. She caught hold of the edge of the
table to steady herself. Her voice seemed to come from a great distance.

"Sir Allan! I do not understand. Why did he do that horrible thing?"

"Sir Geoffrey Kynaston and my husband were mortal enemies," answered
Lady Beaumerville, her voice scarcely raised above a whisper. "Mine was
the fault, mine the guilt. Alas! alas!"

The stately head with its wealth of silvery white hair was buried in her
hands. Her attitude, the agony which quivered in her tone dying away in
her final expression of despair like chords of wild, sad music, and
above all her likeness to the man she loved, appealed irresistibly to
Helen. A great pity filled her heart. She passed her arm round Lady
Beaumerville, and drew her on to the sofa.

There were no words between them then. Only, after a while, Helen asked
quietly:

"Sir Allan--must he confess?"

"It is already done," her visitor answered. "To-morrow the world will
know his guilt and my shame. Ah," she cried, her voice suddenly
changing, "I had forgotten. Turn your face away