"Yes, Paul," she answered, with averted eyes. 

 "And what we talked of?" 

 "A part of that childish gossip I remember well." 

 "Which part?" 

 "The pretty little romance you told me." And Lillian looked up now, longing to ask if Helen's childhood had been blighted like her youth. 

 Paul dropped her hand as if he, read her thoughts, and his own hand went involuntarily toward his breast, betraying that the locket still hung there. 

 "What did I say?" he asked, smiling at her sudden shyness. 

 "You vowed you'd win and wed your fair little lady-love if you lived." 

 "And so I will," he cried, with sudden fire in his eyes. 

 "What, marry her?" 

 "Aye, that I will." 

 "Oh Paul, will you tie yourself for life to a—" The word died on her lips, but a gesture of repugnance finished the speech. 

 "A what?" he demanded, excitedly. 

 "An innocent, one bereft of reason," stammered Lillian, entirely forgetting herself in her interest for him. 

 "Of whom do you speak?" asked Paul, looking utterly bewildered, 

 "Of poor Helen." 

 "Good heavens, who told you that base lie?" And his voice deepened with indignant pain. 

 "I saw her, you did not deny her affliction; Hester said so, and I believed it. Have I wronged her, Paul?" 

 "Yes, cruelly. She is blind, but no idiot, thank God." 

 There was such earnestness in his voice, such reproach in his words, and such ardor in his eye, that Lillian's pride gave way, and with a broken entreaty for pardon, she covered up her face, weeping the bitterest tears she ever 

 Prev. P 35/47 next