up
to her cheek, and of which Pen saw the fervour, though Laura's veil fell
over her face to hide it.

Pen rode on by Laura's side silently for a while. George's name so
mentioned brought back the past to him, and the thoughts which he had
once had regarding George and Laura. Why should the recurrence of the
thought agitate him, now that he knew the union was impossible? Why
should he be curious to know if, during the months of their intimacy,
Laura had felt a regard for Warrington? From that day until the present
time George had never alluded to his story, and Arthur remembered now
that since then George had scarcely ever mentioned Laura's name.

At last he cane close to her. "Tell me something, Laura," he said.

She put back her veil and looked at him. "What is it, Arthur?" she
asked--though from the tremor of her voice she guessed very well.

"Tell me--but for George's misfortune--I never knew him speak of it
before or since that day--would you--would you have given him--what you
refused me?"

"Yes, Pen," she said, bursting into tears.

"He deserved you better than I did," poor Arthur groaned forth, with an
indescribable pang at his heart. "I am but a selfish wretch, and George
is better, nobler, truer, than I am. God bless him!"

"Yes, Pen," said Laura, reaching out her hand to her cousin, and he put
his arm round her, and for a moment she sobbed on his shoulder.

The gentle girl had had her secret, and told it. In the widow's last
journey from Fairoaks, when hastening with her mother to Arthur's
sick-bed, Laura had made a different confession; and it was only when
Warrington told his own story, and described the hopeless condition of
his life, that she discovered how much her feelings had changed,
and with what tender sympathy, with what great respect, delight, and
admiration she had grown to regard her cousin's friend. Until she knew
that some plans she might have dreamed of were impossible, and that
Warrington, reading in her heart, perhaps, had told his melancholy story
to warn her, she had not asked herself whether it was possible that
her affections could change; and had been shocked and seared by the
discovery of the truth. How should she have told it to Helen, and
confessed her shame? Poor Laura felt guilty before her friend, with
the secret which she dared not confide to her; felt as if she had been
ungrateful for Helen's love and regard; felt as if she had been wickedly
faithless to Pen in withdra