th in
her. He was not diffuse or fond to weakness, but full of faithful love
and noble carefulness.

"I would not weary her with my worship, Gerald," he said one day,
having come to Osmonde House to spend an hour in talk with him. "Let me
open my heart to you, which is sometimes too full."

On this morning he gave unconscious explanation of many an incident of
the past few years. He spoke of the time when he had found himself
wakening to this dream of a new life, yet had not dared to let his
thoughts dwell upon it. He had known suffering--remorse that he should
be faithless to the memory of his youth, in some hours almost horror of
himself, and yet had struggled and approached himself in vain. The
night of Lord Twemlow's first visit, when my lord Duke (then my lord
Marquis) had been at Dunstanwolde, the occasion upon which Twemlow had
so fretted at his fair kinswoman and told the story of the falling of
her hair in the hunting-field, he had been disturbed indeed, fearing
that his countenance would betray him.

"I was afraid, Gerald; afraid," he said, "thinking it unseemly that a
man of my years should be so shaken with love--while your strong youth
had gone unscathed. Did I not seem ill at ease?"

"I thought that your lordship disliked the subject," Osmonde answered,
remembering well. "Once I thought you pale."

"Yes, yes," said my lord. "I felt my colour change at the cruel picture
my Lord Twemlow painted--of her hunted helplessness if harm befell
her."

"She would not be helpless," said Osmonde. "Nothing would make her so."

Her lord looked up at him with brightened eye.

"True--true!" he said. "At times, Gerald, I think perhaps you know her
better than I. More than once your chance speech of her has shown so
clear a knowledge. 'Tis because your spirit is like to her own."

Osmonde arose and went to a cabinet, which he unlocked.

"I have hid here," he said, "somewhat which I must show you. It should
be yours--or hers--and has a story."

As his eyes fell upon that his kinsman brought forth his lordship
uttered an exclamation. 'Twas the picture of his lady, stolen before
her marriage by the drunken painter.

"It is herself," he exclaimed, "herself, though so roughly done."

My lord Duke stood a little apart out of the range of his vision and
related the history of the canvas. He had long planned that he would do
the thing, and therefore did it. All the plans he had made for his
future conduct he had carr