Leone stood alone in her pretty drawing-room, the room from which she could see the hills and the trees, and catch glimpses of pretty home scenery that were unrivaled. She stood looking at it now, her eyes fixed on the distant hills, her heart re-echoing the words: "In the grave alone is peace." In her heart and mind all was dross; she seemed to have lost the power of thinking; she had an engagement to sing in her favorite opera on the evening previous. Hundreds had assembled to hear her, and at the last moment they were compelled to find a substitute. Leone could not sing; it was not that her voice failed her, but to her inexpressible sorrow, when she began to tell the woes of another her mind wandered off into her own. In vain she tried to collect herself, to save herself from the terrible whirl of her brain. "Surely I am not going mad." She bent her head on her hands, and sighed deeply; if she could but save herself, if she could but tell what to do. The night before, only a few hours previous, it seemed to her her heart and brain had been on fire, first with jealousy, then with love, then with anger. By accident, as she was going to her wardrobe, her hands fell on a large, beautiful copy of the Bible. She opened it carelessly, and her eyes fell on the words: "For the wicked there shall be no abiding-place, neither shall they find rest forever."

Rest, that was what she wanted, and if she were wicked she would not find it for evermore. What was being wicked? People had behaved wickedly to her, they had taken from her the one love that would have been the stay of her life; they had made her most solemn vows nothing. She had been wickedly treated, but did it follow that she must be wicked?

"I could never be a sinner," she said; "I have not the nerve, I have not the strength. I could never be a sinner."

Lightly enough she turned those pages; she saw the picture of Ruth in the corn-field—simple, loving Ruth, whose words have stood the finest love-story ever written since she uttered them. There was another picture of Queen Esther fainting in the awful presence of Ahasuerus the king; another of a fair young Madonna holding in her arms a little child; another of the Magdalen, her golden hair wet with tears; another of a Sacred Head bent low in the agonies of death. She looked long at that, for underneath it was written, "For our sins." Wickedness meant sin. Standing there, her hand resting on the page, all the truth seemed to come home to her. It would be a sin to cause disunion between husband and wife; it would be a sin to cause the husband of another woman to love her; it would be a sin to give way to the desire of vengeance that was burning her heart away, and these words were so pathetic, "For our sins." She had laid her face on that picture of the Crucifixion, and burning tears fell from her eyes over it.

"God have mercy on me," she had prayed, "and save me from myself."

Then she had slept, and here was the morrow, a lovely summer day with the air all fragrance, the birds all song, and she was still doing hard battle with herself, for, as she had said to herself, hers was "a mad love—a cruel, mad love."

And as she stood watching the distant hills, wondering if in the blue sky that hung over them there was peace, a servant once more entered the room, holding a card in her hand.

"Lady Chandos," said Leone, wonderingly; "ask her in here."

She looked in surprise, almost too great for words, at the little card. Lance's wife, who had refused to speak to her, who had disdained to touch her outstretched hand—Lance's wife coming to speak to her.

What could it mean? Were the whole race of the Lanswells coming to her?

The next moment a fair, sweet face was smiling into hers, a face she had seen last darkened with anger, but which was fair and bright now, with the light of a holy love.

Leone looked at her in amaze. What had happened? It looked as though a new life, a new soul, had been given to Lady Marion. And hush, she was speaking to her in a low, sweet voice, that thrilled through the great singer like the softest cords from an Eolian harp.

"You are surprised to see me," Lady Marion was saying, "yet I have done right in coming. All last night, while the stars were shining, I prayed Heaven to tell me what it was best for me to do, and I shall always think that the white-winged angels, who they say carry prayers to Heaven, sent me to you. I refused to touch your hand the other day. Will you give it to me now? Will you listen to me?"

Leone's whole heart and soul had risen in hot rebellion and fierce hate against the Countess of Lanswell. They went out in sweetest love and compassion to her fair faced rival now. The sweet voice went on:

"I cannot tell why I have come to you—some impulse has sent me. Another woman in my place would have looked on you as a successful rival and have hated you. I cannot. The soul that has stirred other souls cannot be base; you must be noble and good or you would not influence the hearts and souls of men. Oh, madame, I have come to you with two lives in my hands. Will you listen to me?"

The dark, beautiful head of the gifted singer was bent for a few moments over the golden head of her rival. Then Leone raised her eyes to Marion's face.

"You are trembling," she said; "you shall speak to me as you will, but you shall speak to me here."

Some warm, loving irresistible impulse came to her; she could not hate or hurt this fair, gentle lady whom the countess had put in her place, and whom her husband did not love; a great impulse of pity came over her, a sweet and generous compassion filled her heart.

"You shall speak to me here," she repeated, clasping her arms round the trembling figure and laying the golden head on her breast. She kissed the fair, sad face with a passion of love. "There," she said, "Lady Marion, if I had wronged you even in the least, I should not dare do that. Now tell me what you have come to say. Do not tremble so," and the tender arms tightened their clasp. "Do not be afraid to speak to me."

"I am not afraid, for Heaven sent me," said Lady Marion. "I know that you will tell me the truth. I am as certain of that as I am of my own life. I have been very unhappy over you, Madame Vanira, for my husband seems to have cared more for you than for me."

"Has your husband ever told you anything about me?" asked Leone, gently.

And the answer was:

"No, nothing, except that, like everyone else, he admired you very much."

"Nothing more?" asked Leone.

"No, nothing more."

"Then," said Leone to herself, "the secret that he has kept I will keep, and this fair, tender woman shall never know that I once believed myself his wife."

Lady Marion wondered why she bent down and kissed her with all the fervor of self-sacrifice.

"I have been very unhappy," continued Lady Marion. "I loved and admired you. I never had the faintest suspicion in my mind against you, until some one came to tell me that you and my husband had spent a day on the river together. I know it was true, but he would not explain it."

"Let me explain it," said Leone, sadly. "I trust you as you trust me. I have had a great sorrow in my love; greater—oh, Heaven!—than ever fell to the lot of woman. And one day, when I saw your husband, the bitterness of it was lying heavily on me. I said something to him that led him to understand how dull and unhappy I felt. Lady Chandos, he took me on the river that he might give me one happy day, nothing more. Do you grudge it to me, dear? Ah, if I could give you the happiness of those few fleeting hours I would."

And again her warm, loving lips touched the white brow.

"I understand," said Lady Marion. "Why did my husband not speak as you have done? Does he care for you, madame? You will tell me the truth, I know."

And the fair face looked wistfully in her own.

Leone was silent for a few minutes; she could not look in those clear eyes and speak falsely.

"Yes," she answered, slowly; "I think Lord Chandos cares very much for me; I know that he admires and likes me."

Lady Marion looked very much relieved. There could surely be no harm in their friendship if she could speak of it so openly.

"And you, madame—oh, tell me truly—do you love him? Tell me truly; it seems that all my life hangs on your word."

Again the beautiful face drooped silently before the fair one.

"It would be so easy for me to tell you a falsehood," said Leone, while a great crimson flush burned her face, "but I will not. Yes, I—I love him. Pity me, you who love him so well yourself; he belongs to you, while I—ah, pity me because I love him."

And Lady Marion, whose heart was touched by the pitiful words, looked up and kissed her.

"I cannot hate you, since you love him," she said. "He is mine, but my heart aches for you. Now let me tell you what I have come to say. You are good and noble as I felt you were. I have come to ask a grace from you, and it is easier now that I know you love him. How strange it seems. I should have thought that hearing you say that you loved my husband would have filled my heart with hot anger, but it does not; in some strange way I love you for it."

"If you love him, madame, his interests must be dear to you."

"They are dear to me," she whispered. "How strange," repeated Lady Marion, "that while the world is full of men you and I should love the same man."

"Ah, life is strange," said Leone; "peace only comes with death."