"A Gentleman, my lady."

Taking a card from the silver salver on which the servant offered it,Lady Trevlyn read, "Paul Talbot," and below the name these penciledwords, "I beseech you to see me." Lillian stood beside her and saw theline. Their eyes met, and in the girl's face was such a sudden glow ofhope, and love, and longing, that the mother could not doubt ordisappoint her wish.

"I will see him," she said.

"Oh, Mamma, how kind you are!" cried the girl with a passionate embrace,adding breathlessly, "He did not ask for me. I cannot see him yet. I'llhide in the alcove, and can appear or run away as I like when we knowwhy he comes."

They were in the library, for, knowing Lillian's fondness for the roomwhich held no dark memories for her, my lady conquered her dislike andoften sat there. As she spoke, the girl glided into the deep recess of abay window and drew the heavy curtains just as Paul's step sounded atthe door.

Hiding her agitation with a woman's skill, my lady rose withoutstretched hand to welcome him. He bowed but did not take the hand,saying, in a voice of grave respect in which was audible an undertone ofstrong emotion, "Pardon me, Lady Trevlyn. Hear what I have to say; andthen if you offer me your hand, I shall gratefully receive it."

She glanced at him, and saw that he was very pale, that his eyeglittered with suppressed excitement, and his whole manner was that of aman who had nerved himself up to the performance of a difficult butintensely interesting task. Fancying these signs of agitation onlynatural in a young lover coming to woo, my lady smiled, reseatedherself, and calmly answered, "I will listen patiently. Speak freely,Paul, and remember I am an old friend."

"I wish I could forget it. Then my task would be easier," he murmured ina voice of mingled regret and resolution, as he leaned on a tall chairopposite and wiped his damp forehead, with a look of such deepcompassion that her heart sank with a nameless fear.

"I must tell you a long story, and ask your forgiveness for the offensesI committed against you when a boy. A mistaken sense of duty guided me,and I obeyed it blindly. Now I see my error and regret it," he saidearnestly.

"Go on," replied my lady, while the vague dread grew stronger, and shebraced her nerves as for some approaching shock. She forgot Lillian,forgot everything but the strange aspect of the man before her, and thewords to which she listened like a statue. Still standing pale andsteady, Paul spoke rapidly, while his eyes were full of mingledsternness, pity, and remorse.

"Twenty years ago, an English gentleman met a friend in a little Italiantown, where he had married a beautiful wife. The wife had a sister aslovely as herself, and the young man, during that brief stay, loved andmarried her - in a very private manner, lest his father should disinherithim. A few months passed, and the Englishman was called home to takepossession of his title and estates, the father being dead. He wentalone, promising to send for the wife when all was ready. He told no oneof his marriage, meaning to surprise his English friends by producingthe lovely woman unexpectedly. He had been in England but a short timewhen he received a letter from the old priest of the Italian town,saying the cholera had swept through it, carrying off half itsinhabitants, his wife and friend among others. This blow prostrated theyoung man, and when he recovered he hid his grief, shut himself up inhis country house, and tried to forget. Accident threw in his wayanother lovely woman, and he married again. Before the first year wasout, the friend whom he supposed was dead appeared, and told him thathis wife still lived, and had borne him a child. In the terror andconfusion of the plague, the priest had mistaken one sister for theother, as the elder did die."

"Yes, yes, I know; go on!" gasped my lady, with white lips, and eyesthat never left the narrator's face.

"This friend had met with misfortune after flying from the doomedvillage with the surviving sister. They had waited long for letters, hadwritten, and, when no answer came, had been delayed by illness andpoverty from reaching England. At this time the child was born, and thefriend, urged by the wife and his own interest, came here, learned thatSir Richard was married, and hurried to him in much distress. We canimagine the grief and horror of the unhappy man. In that interview thefriend promised to leave all to Sir Richard, to preserve the secret tillsome means of relief could be found; and with this promise he returned,to guard and comfort the forsaken wife. Sir Richard wrote the truth toLady Trevlyn, meaning to kill himself, as the only way of escape fromthe terrible situation between two women, both so beloved, both soinnocently wronged. The pistol lay ready, but death came without itsaid, and Sir Richard was spared the sin of suicide."

Paul paused for breath, but Lady Trevlyn motioned him to go on, stillsitting rigid and white as the marble image near her.

"The friend only lived to reach home and tell the story. It killed thewife, and she died, imploring the old priest to see her child rightedand its father's name secured to it. He promised; but he was poor, thechild was a frail baby, and he waited. Years passed, and when the childwas old enough to ask for its parents and demand its due, the proofs ofthe marriage were lost, and nothing remained but a ring, a bit ofwriting, and the name. The priest was very old, had neither friends,money, nor proofs to help him; but I was strong and hopeful, and thougha mere boy I resolved to do the work. I made my way to England, toTrevlyn Hall, and by various stratagems (among which, I am ashamed tosay, were false keys and feigned sleepwalking) I collected many proofs,but nothing which would satisfy a court, for no one but you knew whereSir Richard's confession was. I searched every nook and corner of theHall, but in vain, and began to despair, when news of the death ofFather Cosmo recalled me to Italy; for Helen was left to my care then.The old man had faithfully recorded the facts and left witnesses toprove the truth of his story; but for four years I never used it, nevermade any effort to secure the title or estates."

"Why not?" breathed my lady in a faint whisper, as hope suddenlyrevived.

"Because I was grateful," and for the first time Paul's voice faltered."I was a stranger, and you took me in. I never could forget that, nortie many kindnesses bestowed upon the friendless boy. This afflicted me,even while I was acting a false part, and when I was away my heartfailed me. But Helen gave me no peace; for my sake, she urged me to keepthe vow made to that poor mother, and threatened to tell the storyherself. Talbot's benefaction left me no excuse for delaying longer, andI came to finish the hardest task I can ever undertake. I feared that along dispute would follow any appeal to law, and meant to appeal firstto you, but fate befriended me, and the last proof was found."

"Found! Where?" cried Lady Trevlyn, springing up aghast.

"In Sir Richard's coffin, where you hid it, not daring to destroy, yetfearing to keep it."

"Who has betrayed me?" And her eye glanced wildly about the room, as ifshe feared to see some spectral accuser.

"Your own lips, my lady. Last night I came to speak of this. You layasleep, and in some troubled dream spoke of the paper, safe in itswriter's keeping, and your strange treasure here, the key of which youguarded day and night. I divined the truth. Remembering Hester'sstories, I took the key from your helpless hand, found the paper on SirRichard's dead breast, and now demand that you confess your part in thistragedy."

"I do, I do! I confess, I yield, I relinquish everything, and ask pityonly for my child."

Lady Trevlyn fell upon her knees before him, with a submissive gesture,but imploring eyes, for, amid the wreck of womanly pride and worldlyfortune, the mother's heart still clung to its idol.

"Who should pity her, if not I? God knows I would have spared her thisblow if I could; but Helen would not keep silent, and I was driven tofinish what I had begun. Tell Lillian this, and do not let her hate me."

As Paul spoke, tenderly, eagerly, the curtain parted, and Lillianappeared, trembling with the excitement of that interview, but consciousof only one emotion as she threw herself into his arms, crying in a toneof passionate delight, "Brother! Brother! Now I may love you!"

Paul held her close, and for a moment forgot everything but the joy ofthat moment. Lillian spoke first, looking up through tears oftenderness, her little hand laid caressingly against his cheek, as shewhispered with sudden bloom in her own, "Now I know why I loved you sowell, and now I can see you marry Helen without breaking my heart. Oh,Paul, you are still mine, and I care for nothing else."

"But, Lillian, I am not your brother."

"Then, in heaven's name, who are you?" she cried, tearing herself fromhis arms.

"Your lover, dear!"

"Who, then, is the heir?" demanded Lady Trevlyn, springing up, asLillian turned to seek shelter with her mother.

"I am."

Helen spoke, and Helen stood on the threshold of the door, with a hard,haughty look upon her beautiful face.

"You told your story badly, Paul," she said, in a bitter tone. "Youforgot me, forgot my affliction, my loneliness, my wrongs, and thenatural desire of a child to clear her mother's honor and claim herfather's name. I am Sir Richard's eldest daughter. I can prove my birth,and I demand my right with his own words to sustain me."

She paused, but no one spoke; and with a slight tremor in her proudvoice, she added, "Paul has done the work; he shall have the reward. Ionly want my father's name. Title and fortune are nothing to one likeme. I coveted and claimed them that I might give them to you, Paul, myone friend, always, so tender and so true."

"I'll have none of it," he answered, almost fiercely. "I have kept mypromise, and am free. You chose to claim your own, although I offeredall I had to buy your silence. It is yours by right - take it, and enjoyit if you can. I'll have no reward for work like this."

"Oh, Lillian, where shall we go? This is no longer our home, but whowill receive us now?" cried Lady Trevlyn, in a tone of despair, for herspirit was utterly broken by the thought of the shame and sorrow instore for this beloved and innocent child.

"I will." And Paul's face shone with a love and loyalty they could notdoubt. "My lady, you gave me a home when I was homeless; now let me paymy debt. Lillian, I have loved you from the time when, a romantic boy, Iwore your little picture in my breast, and vowed to win you if I lived.I dared not speak before, but now, when other hearts may be shut againstyou, mine stands wide open to welcome you. Come, both. Let me protectand cherish you, and so atone for the sorrow I have brought you."

It was impossible to resist the sincere urgency of his voice, the tenderreverence of his manner, as he took the two forlorn yet innocentcreatures into the shelter of his strength and love. They clung to himinstinctively, feeling that there still remained to them one staunchfriend whom adversity could not estrange.

An eloquent silence fell upon the room, broken only by sobs, gratefulwhispers, and the voiceless vows that lovers plight with eyes, andhands, and tender lips. Helen was forgotten, till Lillian, whose elasticspirit threw off sorrow as a flower sheds the rain, looked up to thankPaul, with smiles as well as tears, and saw the lonely figure in theshadow. Her attitude was full of pathetic significance; she still stoodon the threshold, for no one had welcomed her, and in the strange roomshe knew not where to go; her hands were clasped before her face, as ifthose sightless eyes had seen the joy she could not share, and at herfeet lay the time-stained paper that gave her a barren title, but nolove. Had Lillian known how sharp a conflict between passion and pride,jealousy and generosity, was going on in that young heart, she could nothave spoken in a tone of truer pity or sincerer goodwill than that inwhich she softly said, "Poor girl! We must not forget her, for, with allher wealth, she is poor compared to us. We both had one father, andshould love each other in spite of this misfortune. Helen, may I callyou sister?"

"Not yet. Wait till I deserve it."

As if that sweet voice had kindled an answering spark of nobleness inher own heart, Helen's face changed beautifully, as she tore the paperto shreds, saying in a glad, impetuous tone, while the white flakesfluttered from her hands, "I, too, can be generous. I, too, can forgive.I bury the sad past. See! I yield my claim, I destroy my proofs, Ipromise eternal silence, and keep 'Paul's cousin' for my only title.Yes, you are happy, for you love one another!" she cried, with a suddenpassion of tears. "Oh, forgive me, pity me, and take me in, for I am allalone and in the dark!"

There could be but one reply to an appeal like that, and they gave it,as they welcomed her with words that sealed a household league of mutualsecrecy and sacrifice.