suffice to make
you happy."

"I will not hear Lucy Morris abused, Lizzie."

"Is that abuse? Is it abuse to say that she is moral and proper? But,
sir, I shall abuse her. I know her for what she is, while your eyes
are sealed. She is wise and moral, and decorous and prim; but she is
a hypocrite, and has no touch of real heart in her composition. Not
abuse her when she has robbed me of all--all--all that I have in the
world! Go to her. You had better go at once. I did not mean to say
all this, but it has been said, and you must leave me. I, at any
rate, cannot play the hypocrite;--I wish I could." He rose and came
to her, and attempted to take her hand, but she flung away from him.
"No!" she said--"never again; never, unless you will tell me that the
promise you made me when we were down on the sea-shore was a true
promise. Was that truth, sir, or was it a--lie?"

"Lizzie, do not use such a word as that to me."

"I cannot stand picking my words when the whole world is going round
with me, and my very brain is on fire. What is it to me what my words
are? Say one syllable to me, and every word I utter again while
breath is mine shall be spoken to do you pleasure. If you cannot say
it, it is nothing to me what you or any one may think of my words.
You know my secret, and I care not who else knows it. At any rate, I
can die!" Then she paused a moment, and after that stalked steadily
out of the room.

That afternoon Frank took a long walk by himself over the mountains,
nearly to the Cottage and back again; and on his return was informed
that Lady Eustace was ill, and had gone to bed. At any rate, she was
too unwell to come down to dinner. He, therefore, and Miss Macnulty
sat down to dine, and passed the evening together without other
companionship. Frank had resolved during his walk that he would leave
Portray the next day; but had hardly resolved upon anything else. One
thing, however, seemed certain to him. He was engaged to marry Lucy
Morris, and to that engagement he must be true. His cousin was very
charming,--and had never looked so lovely in his eyes as when she had
been confessing her love for him. And he had wondered at and admired
her courage, her power of language, and her force. He could not quite
forget how useful would be her income to him. And, added to this,
there was present to him an unwholesome feeling,--ideas absolutely at
variance with those better ideas which had prompted him when he was
writing hi