nderstood for the first time what a woman's
voice could be. The girl's soul was filled and shaken with passion. She
did not cry aloud nor rant, but every accent thrilled through him from
head to foot. And it seemed to him that she needed no words--that, had
she been speaking in an unknown tongue, the very intonation, the mere
sound, the vibration of her voice, would have told him of her wounded
heart, her despair, her unavailing sorrow, her bitter shame, so eloquent
it was. He did not think all this, but in a passing moment felt it. "I
fear it is all too true," he said. "I don't know what to say nor how to
help you. Your brother--"

"Don't call him that: he is no brother of mine. Ah yes, God help me, he
_is_ my brother; and I think we Lisles bring sorrow to all who are good
to us. We have to you, have we not? Don't stay here, Mr. Thorne: don't
try to help me. Remember that I am of the same blood as my father, who
robbed you--as Bertie, who has been so base."

"And if Judas himself were your brother, what then?" Percival demanded.
His voice, in its masculine vigor and fulness, broke forth suddenly,
like a strong creature held till then in a leash. "And as for the money,
what of that? I am glad it is gone, or I should not have been here
to-day."

No, he would not have needed to turn clerk and earn his living. He would
not have gone to Brackenhill to confess his poverty. He might never have
discovered anything. Most likely he would long since have been Sissy's
husband. Sissy seemed far away now. He had loved her--yes. Oh, poor
little Sissy, who had clung to him! But what were these new feelings
that thronged his heart as he looked at Judith Lisle? He stopped
abruptly. What had he said?

Judith too looked at him, and grew suddenly calm and still. "You are
very good," she said. "I should have been very lonely to-day if I had
not had a friend. It has been a comfort to speak out what I felt, though
I'm afraid I've talked foolishly."

"One can't weigh all one's words," said Percival.

"No," she answered; "and I know you will not remember my folly."

"At any rate, I will not forget that you have trusted me. You are
tired," he said gently: "you ought to rest. There is nothing to be done
to-night."

"Nothing," she answered hopelessly.

"And to-morrow, if there is anything that I can do, you will send for
me, will you not?"

She smiled.

"Promise me that," he urged in a tone of authority. "You will?"

"Yes, I promis