As Fern finished her little speech, Crystal hid her face in her hands, but there was no answer—only the sound of a deep-drawn sob was distinctly audible. A few minutes afterward she raised it, and in the moonlight Fern could see it was streaming with tears.

“Do not say any more,” she implored; “do you think my own heart does not tell me all that, but I will not go back yet; the flaming sword of conscience still bars my way to my Paradise. Fern, do you know why I have told you my story? It is because I am going away, and I want you to promise me something, and there is no one else I can ask; no, not your mother,” as Fern looked surprised at this, “she has enough to trouble her.”

“What is it?” asked Fern, rather timidly.

“I am going away,” returned Crystal, “and one never knows what may happen. I am young, but life is uncertain. If I never come back, if anything befalls me, will you with your own hands give this to Raby,” and as she spoke, she drew from her bosom a thick white envelope sealed and directed, and placed it in Fern’s lap. As it lay there Fern could read the inscription: “To be given to the Rev. Raby Ferrers, after my death.”

“Oh, Crystal,” she exclaimed, with a shiver, “what could happen to you. You are young—not one-and-twenty yet—and your health is good, and—” but Crystal interrupted her with a strange smile.

“Yes, it is true; but the young and the strong have to die sometimes; when the call comes we must go. Do not look so frightened, Fern, I will not die if I can help it; but if it should be so, will you with your own hands give that to Raby; it will tell him what I have suffered, and—and it will comfort him a little.”

“Yes, dear, I will do it;” and Fern leaned forward and kissed her softly. The moon was shining brightly now, and in the clear white light Fern noticed for the first time how thin and pale Crystal looked; how her cheek, and even her slight supple figure, had lost their roundness. There were deep hollows in the temples, dark lines under the dark eyes, in spite of her beauty she was fearfully wan. The grief that preyed upon her would soon ravage her good looks. For the first time Fern felt a vague fear oppressing her, but she had no opportunity to say more, for at that moment Crystal rose quickly from her seat.

“You have promised,” she said, gratefully; “thank you for that. It is a great trust, Fern, but I know I can rely on you. Now I can talk no more. If your mother comes in, will you tell her about Miss Campion. I think she will be glad for many reasons. Now I will try and sleep, for there is much to be done to-morrow. Good night, my dear;” and the next moment Fern found herself alone in the moonlight.

When Mrs. Trafford returned, she heard the news very quietly.

“It will be better—much better,” she said, quickly. “You must not fret about it, my sunbeam. Crystal is beginning to look ill; change and movement will do her good. Our life is very quiet. She has too much time to feed upon herself. She will be obliged to rouse herself among strangers.” And when Fern told her tearfully of the promise she had made, Mrs. Trafford only listened with a grave smile.

“Put it away safely, my dear; you will never have to give it, I hope; only it is a relief to the poor child to know you have it. Hers is a strange morbid nature. She is not yet humbled sufficiently. When she is, she will go back, like the Prodigal, and take the forgiveness that is waiting for her. Now, my darling, all this sad talk has made you look pale. You must try and forget it, and go to sleep.” But, for the first time in her healthy girlhood, sleep refused to come at Fern’s bidding; and she lay restless and anxious, thinking of her friend’s tragical story until the gray dawn ushered in the new day.

The little household in Beulah Place were very busy during the next few days. The girls went out shopping together to replenish Crystal’s modest wardrobe, and then sat working until nearly midnight to complete the new traveling dress. Fern was putting the final stitches on the last afternoon while Crystal went to bid good-bye to her pupils. The black trunk in the girl’s room was already packed, for she was to start early in the morning.

Percy had not yet heard the news; he had been away from town the last week, to Crystal’s great relief. She had begged Mrs. Trafford and Fern to say nothing about her movements. He might appear at any moment, and Crystal dreaded a scene if he heard of her approaching departure.

“It will be much better for him not to know until the sea is between us,” she had said to Mrs. Trafford. “When he hears I have gone without bidding him good-bye, he will see then that I mean what I say—that my life has nothing to do with his;” and Mrs. Trafford had agreed to this.

It was with a feeling of annoyance and very real discomfort, then, that Crystal caught sight of him as she came down the steps of Upton House. He was walking quickly down the street, and evidently perceived her at once. There would be no chance of escaping him, so she walked slowly on, quite aware that he would overtake her in another minute. As they were to part so soon, she must put up with his escort. Of course he had been to Beulah Place, and was now in search of her; poor foolish boy!

The next moment she heard his footstep behind her.

“Miss Davenport, this is too delightful,” and his handsome face wore a look of pleased eagerness. “I thought I should have to wait some time, from Fern’s account, but I have not been here a moment. There is no hurry, is there?” checking her pace as Crystal seemed inclined to walk fast.

“We are busy people, Mr. Trafford,” she answered, pleasantly, “and can never afford to walk slowly. Why did you not wait with your sister? You have not seen her for a long time.”

“Has it seemed a long time to you?” he returned, with quick emphasis. “I wish I could believe that you had missed me, that you had even given me a thought during my absence;” and he looked wistfully at the girl as he spoke.

“I am sure your mother and Fern missed you,” she replied, evasively. She wanted to keep him in good humor, and avoid any dangerous topics. She would like to leave him, if possible, with some kindly memory of this interview. In spite of his sins against her, she could not altogether harden her heart against Fern’s brother.

Any stranger meeting these two young people would have regarded them as a perfectly matched couple. Percy’s refined aristocratic face and distinguished carriage made a splendid foil for Crystal’s dark beauty and girlish grace. As Percy’s eyes rested on her they scarcely noticed the shabby dress she wore. He was thinking as usual that he had never seen any one to compare with this young governess; and he wondered, as he had wondered a hundred times before, if her mother had been an Englishwoman; his mother would never tell him anything about Miss Davenport, except that she was of good birth and an orphan.

“Did you bring Mr. Huntingdon with you?” she asked, rather hurriedly, for she was quite aware of the fixed look that always annoyed her. The admiration of men was odious to her now the only eyes she had cared to please would never look at her again.

“Do you mean Erle?” was the careless answer. “Oh, no, my dearly beloved cousin has other game to bring down;” and here there was a slightly mocking tone in Percy’s voice. “He is with la belle Evelyn as usual. I am afraid Erle does not quite hit it as an ardent lover; he is rather half-hearted. He asked me to go down to Victoria Station to meet his visitor, but I declined, with thanks. I had other business on hand, and I do not care to be ordered about; so the carriage must go alone.”

“You are expecting visitors at Belgrave House then?” she asked; but there was no interest in her manner. She only wanted to keep conversation to general subjects. She would talk of Belgrave House or of anything he liked if he would only not make love to her. If he only knew how she hated it, and from him of all men.

“Oh, it is not my visitor,” was the reply; “it is only some old fogy or other that Erle has picked up at Sandycliffe—Erle has a craze about picking up odd people. Fancy inflicting a blind parson on us, by way of a change.”

He was not looking at the girl as he spoke, or he must have seen the startled look on her face. The next moment she had turned her long neck aside.

“Do you mean he is actually blind, and a clergyman? how very strange!”

“Yes; the result of some accident or other. His name is Ferrers. Erle raved about him to my grandfather; but then Erle always raves about people—he is terribly softhearted. He is coming up to London, on some quest or other, no one knows what it is, Erle is so very mysterious about the whole thing.”

“Oh, indeed,” rather faintly; “and you—you are to meet him, Mr. Trafford?”

“On the contrary, I am going to do nothing of the kind,” he returned, imperturbably. “I told Erle that at 6:30, the time the train was due, I was booked for a pressing engagement. I did not mention the engagement was with my mother, and that I should probably be partaking of a cup of tea; but the fact is true nevertheless.”

Crystal did not answer; perhaps she could not. He was coming up to London, actually to Belgrave House, and on this very evening. Erle must have got scent of her secret—how or in what manner she could not guess; but all the same, it must be Erle who had betrayed her. She had thought him a little odd and constrained the last few times she had seen him; she had noticed more than once that his eyes had been fixed thoughtfully on her face as though he had been watching her, and he had seemed somewhat confused when he had found himself detected. What did it all mean; but never mind that now. Raby would be coming to Beulah Place, but she would be hundreds of miles away before that; she was safe, quite safe; but if only she could see him before she went. If she could only get rid of this tiresome Percy, who would stay, perhaps, for hours. Could she give him the slip? She could never remain in his company through a long evening; it would drive her frantic to listen to him, and to know all the time that Raby was near, and she could not see him. And then all at once a wild idea came to her, and her pale cheeks flushed, and her eyes grew bright, and she began to talk rather quickly and in an excited manner.

“Oh! do you know, Mr. Trafford,” she said, gravely, “I think it is very wrong of you to encourage Mr. Erle to come so often to Beulah Place. Fern is pretty—very pretty, and Mr. Erle is fond of saying pleasant things to her, and all the time he knows Mr. Huntingdon wishes him to marry Miss Selby. He has no right to make himself so agreeable to your sister; and I think you ought to keep him in better order.”

“Oh! I don’t pretend to be Erle’s mentor,” he returned, a little sulkily; for he thought he saw her drift to keep him from talking of his own feelings. “I never interfere with other fellows.”

“Yes, but Fern is your sister,” in a reproachful voice; “and I do think you are to blame in this. Why do you not tell him that he must leave your sister alone, and keep to Miss Selby. Your grandfather would be very angry if he knew of these visits to Beulah Place, and then Mr. Erle would get into trouble.”

“I can’t help that,” was the indifferent answer. “Erle must take his chance with the rest of us; he knows as well as I do the risk he runs.” And in spite of her pre-occupation, Crystal noticed a curious change in Percy’s tone.

“Do you mean that he would get into serious trouble? is that what you would imply? I do not think you are doing your duty, Mr. Trafford, if you do not warn him of Mr. Huntingdon’s displeasure. Mr. Erle is weak, he is easily gulled, but he has good principles; you could soon induce him to break off his visits.”

“I don’t see that I need trouble myself about another fellow’s love affair; I have too much on my own mind. Of course you look impatient, Miss Davenport, it is a crime to speak of my own feelings; but how can you expect me to take interest in another fellow when I am so utterly miserable myself.”

“Mr. Trafford,” she said, trying to control her impatience, “I wish you would let me speak to you for once, as though I were your friend,” she would have substituted the word sister, but she feared to provoke one of his outbursts of indignant pleading.

“You know you may say what you like to me,” he returned, moved by the gentleness of her speech, for she had never been so gracious to him before. “You have more influence over me than any one else in the world. If you could make me a better man, Miss Davenport.”

“I would give much to do it,” she answered, in a low voice that thrilled him strangely. “Mr. Trafford, will you be angry with me if I speak to you very frankly, and earnestly—as earnestly,” here she paused, “as though we were bidding each other good-bye, to-night, for a long time.”

“If you will call me Percy,” he replied, with sudden vehemence, “you shall say what you like to me.”

“Very well,” she answered, with a faint smile at his boyish insistance, “it shall be Percy then—no, do not interrupt me,” as he seemed about to speak. “I am very troubled and unhappy about Mr. Erle’s visits; they are doing harm to Fern, and I must tell you, once for all, that you are not doing your duty either to your sister or cousin.”

“Erle again,” he muttered, moodily.

“Yes, because the matter lies very close to my heart, for I dearly love your sister. Mr. Trafford—Percy, I mean—you have youth, health, talents—the whole world lies before you; why do you envy your cousin, because he is likely to be a richer man than you?”

“He has robbed me of my rightful inheritance,” was the moody answer.

“It could never be yours,” she returned, quickly; “a Trafford will never be Mr. Huntingdon’s heir.”

“I would change my name.”

“That would avail you little,” with a touch of her old scorn, for the speech displeased her. “Mr. Huntingdon would never leave his money to the son of the man whom he hated, and of the daughter whose disobedience embittered his life. Mr. Erle has to answer for no sins but his own.”

“He had better be careful though,” was the quick response.

“What, have you done him mischief already? Why—why are you not more generous to the poor boy? Why do you encourage these visits that you know will anger Mr. Huntingdon? Why do you tempt him from his duty? Percy, I implore you to be true to yourself and him. Look into your own heart and see if you are acting an honorable part.”

“You are always hard on me,” he returned, sullenly. “Who has been blackening my name to you?”

“No one, no one,” she answered, quickly; “but you are a reckless talker, and I have gathered much from my own observation. You have told me more than once that you are in debt; sometimes I fear you gamble. Oh!” as a dark flush mounted to his forehead, “I should be grieved to think that this is true.”

“You would hate me all the more, I suppose,” in a defiant voice.

“Indeed I do not hate you, my poor boy; but you make me very angry sometimes. Do you know me so little as to think I could ever bring myself to love a gambler, or one who tried to rob another of his inheritance—one who was so afraid of poverty that he deserted his mother for the loaves and fishes of the man who was her worst enemy?”

“The old story,” in a despairing voice; “will you never give me even the benefit of an excuse—will you never allow me to defend myself?”

“I am not your judge,” was the cold reply; and then, as she saw the misery of his face, she relented. “Indeed, it is not too late to retrieve the past. If you have debts, if you are in trouble, own it frankly to your grandfather.”

“And be turned out of the house a beggar?”

“What of that,” she replied, cheerfully; “you have a profession; every one says how clever you are—what a splendid barrister you will make. You can take pupils; success and money will come to you in time.”

“Too late,” he muttered; “I can not free myself.” Then, with a sudden change of look and tone, “Crystal, if I do this—if I leave Belgrave House, will you give me a hope of winning you in the future?”

She shook her head; “I can not give you that hope.”

“Why not?” he demanded, fiercely.

“Because I belong to another,” she answered, slowly, and there came a wonderful light in her eyes; “and for his sake I will live as I am to my life’s end.”

They had reached Beulah Place by this time, and Mrs. Watkins’s shop was in sight. There were few passers-by, so no one noticed why Percy suddenly stood still and seized his companion’s hands.

“You love another man? You dare to tell me this?”

“I tell you this for your own good, and that you may never speak to me again as you have done. You must not be angry with me for telling you the truth; and now will you ring the bell, for there is no need to go through the shop?”

“I am not coming in,” he said, hoarsely. “I can not trust myself.”

“Then we will say good-bye here,” was the quiet answer, and she pressed his hands kindly. “Forgive me if I have made you unhappy, but indeed it is your fault, and I thought it better to tell you the truth. Good-bye, my poor boy;” but though her voice was full of gentleness and pity, he scarcely heard it. He had wrung her hands, almost throwing them from him, and had turned away without a word.

Crystal looked after him rather wistfully; her heart felt strangely soft to him to-night. “Was it wrong to tell him, I wonder?” she said to herself, as she quickly retraced her steps. “He is terribly reckless, one never knows how he may take things. It was good of him to listen to me so patiently; and now he has gone away sore and angry.”Crystal was walking very fast now, as though she had suddenly remembered some errand. As an empty hansom passed her she hailed it. “Will you drive me to Victoria Station,” she said to the man in a business-like tone; “I want to meet the 6:30 train from Singleton. I think there is time.”

“None too much,” was the somewhat gruff answer, “but my horse is fresh;” and Crystal drew into a corner and tried to curb her impatience by watching the passers-by; but her fear of being too late kept her restless and miserable.

As they drove into Victoria Station a handsome barouche, with a pair of fine bays, attracted Crystal’s attention. The footman had got down and was making inquiries of a porter. “Singleton train just due,” Crystal heard the man say, as she handed the cabman his fare; and as she quickly passed through the station, the train slowly drew up at the platform.

Only just in time! Crystal pressed eagerly forward, scanning the occupants of all the carriages until she came to the last.

There were two passengers in this compartment; a young lady, with a good-natured freckled face, was speaking to a very tall man who was standing in the center of the carriage. “You must let me help you out,” Crystal heard her say in a pleasant countrified voice, “and wait with you until your friends find you;” and then came the answer in the deep tones Crystal knew so well.

“Thank you, you are very kind. My unfortunate infirmity gains new friends for me everywhere; so after all, you see, even blindness has its alleviations, Miss Merriman.”

“Oh, I will be sure to tell papa what you say; it will be such a comfort to him. Now, will you put your hand on my shoulder—it is a deep step—take care;” but as Raby tried to follow this instruction, a little gloved hand, that certainly did not belong to Miss Merriman, gently guided him and placed him in safety.

Miss Merriman nodded and smiled her thanks.

“There, you are all right now. What is the matter Mr. Ferrers?”

“I thought some one touched me,” he returned, with a puzzled look, “and you were on my other side, so I suppose it was some kind stranger.”

“Yes, a young lady,” as Crystal moved away rather suddenly. “Ah! there is a footman; he seems in search of some one. I will ask him if he be looking for you,” and Miss Merriman darted away.

Raby stood quietly waiting, but he little knew that the girl whom he had come to London to seek was standing a few yards from him, trying to see him through the tears that blinded her.

Many people turned to look after the tall, striking-looking man in clerical dress. The felt hat just shaded the pale, massively cut features. He looked older, Crystal thought, and a little sadder, but the mouth was as beautiful as ever.

Once he looked up as hasty footsteps brushed him, as though he would move aside, but a girlish figure interposed between him and the loaded truck, and again the little hand guided him to safety.

“It is all right—the man says he is waiting for Mr. Ferrers,” observed Miss Merriman briskly at this moment. “What horrid things those trucks are; I was afraid one would have knocked you, only the young lady led you away.”

“What! a young lady?” asked Raby, quickly.

“Oh, only a tall young lady in brown, who seemed to notice you wanted help. She has gone now—probably a passenger for the down-train.”

“I think all young ladies are good to me,” returned Raby, with grave courtesy, holding out his hand. “I know I have met with a very kind fellow-passenger;” and then, as he took the footman’s arm and entered the carriage, Miss Merriman saw the tall young lady in brown walk quickly out of the station, and as she passed her there were tears running down her cheeks.