When next she opened her eyes, she lay on her own bed,
in her own well-known chamber, and the old nurse and the
good vicar's wife were watching over her. As her lids rose,
and she looked about her, all her intelligence returned upon the
moment; and she was perfectly aware of all that had already
passed, of all that she had still to undergo. “Well,” she replied,
to the eager and repeated inquiries after the state of her
bodily and mental sensations, which were poured out from the
lips of her assiduous watchers — “oh! I feel quite well, I do
assure you — I was not hurt at all — not in the least — only I
was so foolish as to faint from terror. But Marian, how is
Marian?”

“Not injured in the least — but very anxious about you, sweet
Annabel,” replied Mistress Somers, “so much so, that I was
obliged to force her from the chamber, so terrible was her grief—
so violent her terror and excitement. Lord de Vaux snatched
her from her horse, and saved her before he even saw your
danger; he, too, is in a fearful state of mind; he has been at
the door twenty times, I believe, within the hour; hark, that is
his foot now, will you see him, dearest?”

A quick and chilly shudder ran through the whole frame of

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the lovely girl, and a faint hue glowed once again in her pale
cheek; but mastering her feelings, she made answer in her
own notes of sweet, calm music.

“Not yet, dear Mistress Somers, not yet; but tell him, I beseech
you, that I am better — well, indeed! and will receive his
visit by-and-by; and, in the meantime, my good friend, I must
see Marian — must see her directly, and alone. No! no! you
must not hinder me of my desire, you know,” she went on,
with a faint and very melancholy smile, “you know of old, I
am a wilful, stubborn girl when I make up my mind, and it is
quite made up now, my good friend! so, I pray you let me see
her; I am quite strong, I do assure you; so do, I beseech you,
go and console my Lord de Vaux, and let nurse bring me Marian
hither.”

So firmly did she speak, and so resolved was the expression
of her soft gentle features, that they no longer hesitated to comply
with her request; and both retired with soft steps from the
chamber.

Then Annabel half uprose from the pillows, which had
propped her, and clasped her hands in attitude of prayer, and
turned her beautiful eyes upward — her lips moved visibly, not
in irregular impulsive starts, but with a smooth and ordered motion,
as she prayed fervently, indeed, but tranquilly, for strength
to do, and patience to endure, and grace to do and to endure
alike with Christian love and Christian fortitude.

While she was thus engaged, a quick uncertain footstep,
now light and almost tripping, now heavy and half faltering,
approached the threshold; a gentle hand raised the latch once,
and again let it fall, as if the comer was fluctuating between the
wish to enter, and some vague apprehension which for the moment
conquered the desire.

“Is it you, Marian?” asked the lovely sufferer; “oh, come in,
come in, sister!” and she did come in, that bright lovely

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sufferer, her naturally high complexion almost unnaturally brilliant
now, from the intensity of her hot blushes: her eyes were
downcast, and she could not so much as look up into the sad
sweet face of Annabel. Her whole frame trembled visibly, as
she approached the bed, and her foot faltered very much; yet
she drew near, and sitting down beside the pillow, took Annabel's
hand tenderly between her own, and raised it to her warm
lips, and kissed it eagerly and often.

Never, for a moment's space, did the eyes of Annabel swerve
from her sister's features, from the moment she entered the
door until she sat down by her side; but rested on them, as if
through them they would peruse the secret soul with a soft,
gentle scrutiny, that savored not at all of sternness or reproach.
At last, as if she was fully satisfied, she dropped her eyelids,
and for a little space, kept them close shut; while again her
lips moved silently, and then pressing her sister's hand fondly,
she said in a quiet soothing voice, as if she were alluding to an
admitted fact, rather than asking a question —

“So you have met him before, Marian?”

A violent convulsion shook every limb of her whom she addressed,
and the blood rushed in torrents to her brow; she
bowed her head upon her sister's hand, and burst into a paroxysm
of hysterical tears and sobbing, but answered not a word.

“Nay! nay! dear sister,” exclaimed Annabel, bending down
over her, and kissing her neck, which, like her brow and
cheeks, was absolutely crimson, “Nay! nay! sweet Marian,
weep not thus, I beseech you, there is no wrong done — none
at all — there was no wrong in your seeing him, when you did
so — it was at York, I must believe — nor in your loving him
either, when you did so; for I had not then seen him, and of
course could not love him. But it was not right, sweetest Marian,
to let me be in ignorance of all this; only think, dearest,
only think what would have been my agony, when I had come

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to know, after I was a wife, that in myself becoming happy, I
had brought misery on my second self, my own sweet sister!
nay, do not answer me yet, Marian; for I can understand it all—
almost all, that is — and I quite appreciate your motives, I
am sure that you did not know that he loved you, for he does
love you, Marian! — but fancied that he loved me only, and so
resolved to control yourself, and crush down your young affections,
and sacrifice yourself for me; thank God! oh! thank
God, that your strength was not equal to the task, for had it
been so, we had been wretched, oh! most wretched! But you
must tell me all about it; for there is much I can not comprehend—
when did you see him first, and where? Why did he
never so much as hint to me, that he had known you? Why,
when I wrote you word that he was here, and afterward, that I
liked, loved, was about to marry him — why did you never write
back that you knew him? And why, above all, when you
came and found him here — here in your mother's house, why
did you meet him as a stranger? I know it will be painful to
you, dear one; but you must bear the pain; for it is necessary
now, that there shall be no more mistakes. Be sure of one
thing, dearest Marian, that I will never wed him; oh! not for
worlds! I could not sleep one night, not one hour, in the
thought that my bliss was your bane; but if he loves you as he
ought, and as you love him, sister, for I can read your soul, he
shall be yours at once; and I shall be more happy so — more
happy tenfold, than pillowing my head upon a heart which
beats for another — but he must explain all this, for I much fear
me, he has dealt very basely by us both — I fear me much he
is a bold, base man!”

“No! no!” cried Marian, eagerly raising her clear eyes to
her sister's, full of ingenuous truth and zealous fire — “No!
no! he is all good, and true, and noble! I, it is I only, who
have for once been false and wicked; not altogether wicked,

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Annabel, perhaps more foolish than to blame, at least in my intentions;
but you shall hear all; you shall hear all, Annabel,
and then judge for yourself,” and then, still looking her sister
quite steadily and truthfully in the face, she told her how at a
ball in York, she had met the young nobleman, who had seemed
pleased with her; had danced with her many times, and visited
her, but never once named love, nor led her in the least to
fancy he esteemed her, beyond a chance acquaintance; “but I
loved him, oh! how I loved him, Annabel; almost from the first
time I saw him, and I feared ever — ever and only — that by
my bold, frank rashness, he might discover his power, and believe
me forward and unmaidenly; weeks passed, and our intimacy
ripened, and I became each hour more fondly, more devotedly,
more madly — for it was madness all! — enamored of
him.

“He met me ever as a friend, no more! The time came,
when he was to leave York, and as he took leave of me he
told me that he had just received despatches from his father,
directing him to visit mine; and I, shocked by the coolness of
his parting tone, and seeing indeed he had no love for me,
scarcely noting what he said, told him not that I had no father,
but I did tell him that I had one sweet sister, and suddenly extorted
from him, unawares, a promise that he would never tell
you he had known me. My manner, I am sure, was strange
and wild; and I have no doubt my words were so likewise, for
his demeanor altered on the instant. His air, which had been
that of quiet friendship, became cool, chilling, and almost disdainful,
and within a few minutes he took his leave, and we
never met again till yester even.

“You will, I doubt not, ask me wherefore I did all this! I
was mad — mad with love and disappointment. And the very
instant he said that he was coming hither, I knew as certainly
that he would love you and you him, Annabel, as though it had

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been palpably revealed to me. I could not write of him to you—
I could not, Annabel, and when your letters came, and we
learned that he was here, I confessed all this to our aunt; and
though she blamed me much, for wild and thoughtless folly, she
thought it best to keep the matter secret. This is the whole
truth, Annabel — the whole truth! I fancied that the absence—
the knowledge that I should see him next my sister's husband—
the stern resolve with which I bound my soul — had made
me strong enough to bear his presence: I tried it, and I found
myself, how weak — this is all, Annabel; can you forgive me,
sister?”

“Sweet, innocent Marian,” exclaimed the elder sister through
her tears, for she had wept constantly through the whole sad
narration, “there is not anything for me to forgive — you have
wronged yourself only, my sister! But yet — but yet! — I cannot
understand it — he must have seen, no man could fail to see
that one, so frank and artless as you are, Marian, was in love
with him. He must, if not before, have known it certainly,
when you extorted from him, as you call it, that strange promise.
Besides, he loves you, Marian; he loves you; then
wherefore, in God's name! did he woo me — for woo he did,
and fervently, and long, before he won me to confession? oh!
he is base! base, base, and bad at heart, my sister! — answer
me nothing, dear one, for I will prove him very shortly — send
Margaret hither to array me. I will go down and speak with
him forthwith. If he be honest, Marian, he is yours — and
think not that I sacrifice myself, when I say this, for all the
love I ever felt for him has vanished utterly away — if he is
honest, he is yours. But be not over-confident, dear child, for
I believe he is not; and if not, why then, sweet Marian, can
we not comfort one another, and live together as we used, dear,
innocent, united, happy sisters? Do not reply now, Marian,
your heart is too full; haste and do as I tell you; before

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suppertime to-night all shall be ended — whether for good or for evil,
He only knows, to whom the secrets of the heart are visible,
even as the features of the face. Farewell, be of good cheer,
and yet not over-cheerful.”