Rachel started from her seat and stood facing the door. Her cheek flushed crimson, then grew deadly white, her lips parted as if she breathed with difficulty.

De Burgh, the moment his eyes fell on her, stopped as if suddenly arrested by an invisible hand; his eyes expressed horror and surprise, his dark face grew darker. Rachel quickly recovered. "I will call again," she murmured, and passing him swiftly, noiselessly, left the room, closing the door behind her.

Like a flash of lightning, the meaning of this scene darted through Katherine's brain. Clasping her hands with interlaced fingers, she pressed them against her breast.

"Ah!" she exclaimed (there was infinite pain in that "ah!") "then you are the man?"

"What do you mean?" asked De Burgh, in a sullen tone, his thick brows almost meeting in a frown.

"The man she loved and lived with," returned Katherine, the words were low and clear.

"I am!" he replied, defiantly. Then a dreadful silence fell upon them.

Katherine dropped into a chair, and, resting her elbows on the table, covered her face with her hands.

"My God!" exclaimed De Burgh, advancing a step nearer. "How does she come here?"

Katherine could not speak for a moment; at last, and still covering her eyes and with a low quick utterance as if overwhelmed, she said,

"I have known her for some time. I found her dying of despair! I was able to befriend her, to win her back to life, to something like hope. She told me everything, except the name. We have ceased to speak of the past! I little knew, I could not have dreamed—I never suspected;" her voice broke, and she burst into tears, irresistible tears which she struggled vainly to repress.

"Why should you not suspect me!" exclaimed De Burgh, harshly. "Did you suppose me above or below other men?"

"Ah! poor Rachel! what a flood of unspeakable bitterness must have overwhelmed her, to find you here!"

De Burgh paced to and fro, bewildered, furious, not knowing how to defend himself or what to say.

"I am the most unfortunate devil that ever breathed!" he exclaimed at last, pausing beside the table and resting one hand on it. "Look here, Katherine, how can a girl like you—for, in spite of your mature airs, you are a mere girl—how can you judge the—the temptations and ways of a world of which you know nothing?"

"Temptations!" she murmured; "did Rachel ask you to take her to live with you?"

"No, of course not," angrily, "she is rather a superior creature, I admit; but I deny that I ever deceived or deserted her! She was perfectly aware I never Intended to marry her, and I was awfully put out when she disappeared. I did my best to find her. But the fact is, when she did not reappear, I not unnaturally supposed she had gone off with some other man."

Katherine looked upon him suddenly with such tragic, horrified eyes that De Burgh was startled; then she slightly raised her hands with an expressive gesture, again covering her face.

"Yes, yes," De Burgh went on, impatiently, "I see you think me a brute for suspecting her capable of such a thing, but how was I to know she was different from others? It is too infernally provoking that such an affair should came to your notice! You are quite unable to judge fairly;" and he resumed his agitated walk. "I swear I am no worse than my neighbors. Ask any woman of the world, ask Mrs. Needham—they will tell you I am not an unpardonable sinner! I will do anything on earth for Rachel that you think right. Just remember her position and mine, it was not as if—It is impossible to explain to you, but there was no reason, had she been a little sensible, why such an episode should have spoiled her life! Lots of women—" he stopped, and with a muttered curse paused opposite her.

"And could you have been her companion so long, without perceiving the strength and pride and tenderness of the woman who gave up all hoping to keep the love you no doubt ardently expressed? Ah! if you could have seen her as she was when I found her!"

"How was I to know she was staking her gold against my counters?" returned De Burgh, obstinately, though a dark flush passed over his face at Katherine's words.

"Lord de Burgh! I did not think you could be so cruel," cried Katherine, rising. "I will not speak to you any longer."

"Cruel!" he exclaimed, placing himself between her and the door. "How can I be just or generous, when this most unfortunate encounter has put me in such a hopeless position? Katherine, will you let this miserable mistake of the past rob me of my best hopes, my most ardently cherished desires——"

"It is but two or three years since you spoke in the same tone, possibly the same words, to Rachel! At least, knowing her as I do, I feel sure she would have yielded to no common amount of persuasion. She was mad, weak to a degree to listen to you; but she was alone, and love is so sweet."

"It is," cried De Burgh, passionately. "Why will you turn from love as true, as intense as ever was offered to woman, merely because I let myself fall into an error but too common—"

"Is it not a mere accident of our respective positions that you happen to seek me as your wife?" said Katherine, a slight curl on her lip; "and how can I feel sure that in time you will not weary of me as you did of her?"

"The cases are utterly unlike. So long as the world lasts, men and women too will act as Rachel Trant and I did; Nature is too strong for social laws and religious maxims."

"And you said you had never done anything to be ashamed of?" she exclaimed, bitterly.

"Nor have I!" said De Burgh, stoutly, "if I were tried by the standard of our world. How can you know—how can you judge?"

"I do not judge, I have no right to judge," said Katherine, brokenly. "I only know that, when I saw your eyes meet Rachel's I felt a great gulf had suddenly opened between us, a gulf that cannot be bridged. I do not understand and cannot judge, as you say, and I am sorry for you too; but if life is to be this miserable shuffling of chances, this jumble of injustice, I would rather die than live. No, Lord de Burgh, I will go."

"Good Heavens! Katherine, you are trembling; you can hardly stand. I am a brute to keep you; but I cannot help clutching my only chance of happiness. You are an angel! Dispose of me as you will; but in mercy give me some hope. I'll wait; I'll do anything."

"Oh, no, no. It is impossible. I am so fond of her; and you will find many to whom your past will be nothing; for me it is irrevocable. The world seems intolerable; let me go;" and she burst into such bitter sobs that her whole frame shook.

"I must not keep you now; but I shall not give you up. I will write. Oh, Katherine, you would not destroy me!" He seized and passionately kissed her hand, which she tore from him, and fled from the room.

When Rachel Trant escaped from the presence of her dearest friend and her ex-lover, she could scarcely see or stand. Thankful not to meet anyone, she hastily left the house, and, somewhat revived by the air, she made her way to a secluded part of the Kensington Gardens. Here she found a seat, and, still palpitating with the shock she had sustained, strove to reduce the chaotic whirl of her thoughts to something like order.

She divined by instinct why De Burgh was at Mrs. Needham's. She knew, how she could not tell, that he was seeking Katherine as eagerly as he had sought herself; but with what a different object! The sight of De Burgh was as the thrust of a poisoned dagger through the delicate veins and articulations of her moral system. To see the dark face and sombre eyes she had loved so passionately—had!—still loved!—was almost physical agony. It was as if some beloved form had been brought back from another world, but animated by a spirit that knew her not, regarded her not at all. Oh, the bitterness of such an estrangement, of this expulsion from the paradise of warmth and tenderness where she had been cherished for a while—a heavenly place which should know her no more.

"I brought it all upon myself," was the sentence of her strong stern sense. "Losing self-respect, what hold can any woman have upon a lover?—yet how many men are faithful even to death without the legal tie! I do not love him now, but how fondly, how intensely I loved the man I thought he was! Oh, fool, fool, fool, to believe that I could ever tighten my hold upon a man who had gained all he wished unconditionally! I have deserved all—all."

Yet she had no hatred against the real De Burgh, neither had she any angelic desire to forgive him, or to do him good or convert him; what he was now, he would ever be. He might even make a fairly good husband. The episode of his connection with herself would in no way interfere with his moral harmony. But he was not worthy of Katherine; no unbreakable tie would make him more constant; and, though his faithlessness could not touch her social position, he might crush her heart all the same. Rachel was far too human, too passionate, not to shrink with unutterable pain from the idea of this man's entrancing love being lavished on another, yet her true, devoted affection for her benefactress remained untouched. Katherine stood before everything. Rachel did not wish to injure De Burgh—her heart had simply grown strong, and she would not hesitate for a moment to save Katherine from trouble at any cost to him.

What then should she do?—continue to withhold the name of the man of whom she had so often spoken, or let Katherine know the whole truth and judge for herself? If she decided on the latter, it would break up her friendship with Katherine, and De Burgh would attribute her action to revenge. Should that deter her? No; so long as she was sure of herself, what were opinions to her? The one thing in life to which she clung now was Katherine's affection and esteem; for her she would sacrifice much, but she would not flatter her into a fool's paradise of trust and wedded love with De Burgh by concealing anything, neither would she counsel her against the desperate experiment, should she be inclined to risk it. He might be a very different man to a wife.

A certain amount of composure came to her with decision, though a second death seemed to have laid its icy hand upon her heart; she rose and made her way towards her own abode, determining to await a visit or some communication from Katherine before she touched the poisoned tract which lay between them.

Rachel had scarcely reached the Broad Walk when she was accosted by a little girl, who ran towards her, calling loudly,

"Miss Trant, Miss Trant, don't you know me?"

She was a slight, willowy creature with black eyes, profuse dark hair, and sallow complexion. Her dress was costly, though simple, and she was followed at a more sober pace by a lady-like but foreign-looking girl, apparently her governess.

"Well, Miss Liddell, are you taking a morning walk?" asked Rachel, as the child took her hand.

"I am going to see papa. I am to have dinner with him. He has a bad cold, and he sent for me."

"Then you must cheer him up, and tell him what you have been learning."

"I haven't learnt much yet; it is so tiresome."

"Come, Mademoiselle Marie, you must not tease Miss Trant," said the foreign-looking lady, whom Rachel recognized as one of the governesses who sometimes escorted George Liddell's daughter "to be tried on."

"She does not tease me," returned Rachel, who had rather taken a fancy to the child.

"Won't you come and see papa with me?" continued the little heiress. "I wish you would, and he will tell you to make me another pretty frock—I love pretty frocks."

"Not to-day; I must go home and make frocks for other people."

"Then I will bring him to see you—I will, I will; he does whatever I like. Good-bye," springing up to kiss her. "I may come and see you soon?"

"Whenever you like, my dear," said Rachel, feeling strangely comforted by the child's warm kisses; and they parted, going in different directions, to meet again soon.

Mrs. Needham had been sorely tried on that fatal day when De Burgh had suddenly departed, after a comparatively short interval, and Katherine had disappeared into the depths of her own room.

She had anticipated entertaining the bridegroom-elect at luncheon, and had ordered lobster-cream and an epigramme d'agneau a la Russe as suitable delicacies; she expected confidential consultation and delightful plans; she had even speculated on so managing that the double event:—Angela Bradley's marriage with Errington and Katherine's with Lord de Burgh,—might come off on the same day, even in the same church: that would be a culmination of excitement! Now some mysterious blight had fallen on all her schemes. What had happened? What could they have quarrelled about? Then when Katherine emerged from her refuge she was hopelessly mysterious; there was no penetrating the reserve in which she wrapped herself.

"There is no one in whom I should more readily confide than in you, dear Mrs. Needham, but a serious difference has arisen between Lord de Burgh and myself, respecting which I cannot speak to anyone. I regret being obliged to keep it to myself, but I must."

"My dear, if you adopt that tone I have nothing more to say, but it is horribly provoking and disappointing. I am quite sure people began to expect it—that you would marry Lord de Burgh, I mean, and what a position you have thrown away. You can't expect a man like him to be a saint. There is no use trying men by our standard; in short, it's not much matter what standard we have, we must always come down a step or two if we mean to make both ends meet; but you see, when a man has money and right principles, he can atone for a lot."

Katherine gazed at her astonished. How was it that she had found the scent which led so near the real track?

"No money," she said, gravely, "could in any way affect the matters in dispute between Lord de Burgh and myself, so I will not speak any more on the subject. It has all been very painful, and the worst part is that I cannot tell you."

"Well, it must be bad," observed Mrs. Needham, in a complaining tone, "but I suppose I must just hold my tongue."

So Katherine was left in comparative peace. But it was a hard passage to her; she could not shake off the sickening sense of wrong and sorrow, the painful consciousness of being humiliated which the revelation inflicted on her, the feeling that she was, in some inexplicable way, touched by the evil-doing of those who were so near her.

A slight cold, caught she knew not how, aggravated the fever induced by distress of mind, and next day Mrs. Needham thought her so unwell that she insisted on sending for the doctor, who condemned Katherine to her bed, a composing draught, and solitude.

The doctor, however, could not forbid letters, and Katherine's seclusion was much disturbed by a long, rambling, impassioned epistle from De Burgh, in which, though he promised not to intrude upon her at present, he refused to give up all hope, as he could not believe that she would always maintain her present exaggerated and unreasonable frame of mind—a letter that did him no good in Katherine's estimation. Then she tried to resume her work. But Mrs. Needham, returning from one of her "rapid acts" of inspection and negotiation in and out divers and sundry warehouses, dismissed her peremptorily to lie down on the sofa in the drawing-room, in reality to get her out of the way, as she was expecting a visit from Miss Payne, with whom she wanted a little private conversation.

"Can you throw any light on this mysterious quarrel between Katherine and Lord de Burgh?" she asked, abruptly, as soon as Miss Payne was seated in the study.

"Quarrel? have they quarrelled? I know nothing about it. When did they quarrel?"

"About three days ago. He came here to propose for her, I know he did, they were talking together for—oh!—barely a quarter-of-an-hour in the drawing-room, when I heard her fly up stairs, and he rushed away, slamming the door as if he would take the front of the house out. Katherine has never been herself since. It is my firm belief she is strongly attached to him,—what do you think?"

"I don't know what to think; they were very good friends, but I do not think Katherine was in love with him. She is a curious girl. I often am tempted to fancy she has something on her mind."

"Nonsense, my dear Miss Payne. I never met a finer, truer nature than Katherine Liddell's," cried Mrs. Needham, an affectionate smile lighting up her handsome, kindly face. "The worst of it is, I do not know whom to blame, and Katherine has put me on honor not to ask her."

"I cannot help you," said Miss Payne; and she fell into a thoughtful silence, while Mrs. Needham watched her eagerly.

"I am going away for a few weeks," resumed Miss Payne. "I have let my house, and I shall go to Sandbourne; the weather seems settled, and it will be pleasant there. If you can spare her, I will ask Katherine to come with me, she liked the place, and perhaps in the intimacy of every-day life she may tell me what happened; but, remember, I'll not tell you unless she gives me leave."

"No, no, of course not; but I am sure she would trust me as soon as anyone.'

"Very likely. It will just depend upon who is near her when she is in a confidential mood."

"Perhaps. I am sure it would do her good; and Sandbourne is not far. If De Burgh wants to make it up, he can easily run down there."

"Yes, he knows his way. I am not sure that he is the right man, though," said Miss Payne, reflectively; "he is too ready to ride rough-shod over everyone and everything."

"Do you think so? I must say I thought him a delightful person, so natural and good-natured."

"Well, let me go and see Katherine. I am anxious to take her away with me."

Katherine was most willing to accept Miss Payne's proposition. She was soothed and gratified by the thoughtful kindness shown her by both her friends, and anxious to refresh her mind and recruit her strength before taking up her life again.

"You are so good to think of taking me with you," she cried, when Miss Payne ceased speaking. "I should like greatly to go, if Mrs. Needham can spare me."

"Of course I can. You will come back a better secretary than ever," exclaimed that lady, cheerfully. "I will try to run down and see you some Saturday. It is rather a new place, this Sandbourne, isn't it?"

"Yes; it is not crowded yet."

"When do you go down there?"

"On Saturday afternoon," returned Miss Payne. "I have taken rooms at Marine Cottage; you know, it is at the end of the parade, near an old house."

"Yes, quite well; it is a nice little place."

"I will write to secure another bedroom; and let us meet at the station on Saturday. I go by the 2.50 train." A few more preliminaries and the affair was settled.

Previous to leaving town, however, Katherine felt she must see Rachel Trant, though she half dreaded meeting her. It must have been an awful blow to meet De Burgh as she did. Would she divine what brought him there? Katherine felt she had been cold and remiss in having kept silence towards her friend so long, and, when Miss Payne left, she walked with her across the park to Rachel's abode, in spite of Mrs. Needham's assurances that it would be too much for her, and retard the recovery of her nervous forces, etc., etc.

Katherine was not kept long waiting in the neat little back parlor, which was Miss Trant's private room. Rachel came to her looking very white, while she breathed quickly. She paused just within the door, in a hesitating, uncertain way, which seemed to Katherine very pathetic.

"Oh! Rachel," she cried, her soft brown eyes suffused with tears as she tenderly kissed her brow, "I know everything, and—I will never see him again."

"He is not all bad," said Rachel, in a low tone, as she clasped Katherine's hand in both her own.

"No, I am sure he is not; but he has passed out of our lives; let us speak of him no more."

"I should be glad not to do so; but he has written me a letter I should like you to see. He seems grieved for the past and makes munificent offers."

"I should rather not see it, Rachel. I want to forget. Did you reply?"

"I did, very gravely, very shortly. I told him I wanted nothing, that the best friend I ever had had put me in the way perhaps to make my fortune, and—and, dearest Miss Liddell, if you care for——"

"But I do not, I did not," interrupted Katherine. "Oh! thank God I do not. How could I have borne what has come to my knowledge if I did? Now, let the past bury its dead."

"Is it not amazing that we should be so strangely linked together?" murmured Rachel.

Katherine made no reply. After a short silence, as if they stood by a still open grave, Katherine began to speak of her intended visit to Miss Payne, and before they parted, though both were hushed and grave, they had glided into their usual confidential, affectionate tone. Business, however, was not mentioned.

"I wish you could see your cousin's little daughter," said Rachel, rather abruptly, as Katherine rose to bid her good-bye. "She's an interesting, naughty little creature, small of her age, but in some ways precocious. I am fond of her, partly, I suppose, because she likes me. There is something familiar to me in her face, yet I cannot say that she actually resembles anyone."

"I should like to see her," returned Katherine; and soon after she left her friend, relieved and calmed by the feeling that the explanation was over.

"Well, my dear," cried Mrs. Needham, when they met at dinner. "I have a great piece of news for you: Mr. Errington is to be the new editor of The Cycle. A capital thing for him! and that accounts for the announcement of the marriage being held back, just to let people get accustomed to the first start. It shows what Bradley thinks of him. It is really a grand triumph to get such an appointment after so short an apprenticeship."

"I am glad of it, very glad," returned Katherine, thoughtfully. "I suppose he is considered very clever."

"A first-rate man, quite first-rate, for all serious tough subjects. I think, dear, if I could run down on Saturday week till Monday it would be an immense refreshment;" and Mrs. Needham wandered off into the discussion of a variety of schemes.

On the Saturday following, Katherine and her faithful chaperon set out for their holiday with mutual satisfaction and a hope that they left their troubles behind them.