“That is not fair,” said the heiress, thoughtfully.

“Then again, if you were to tell Miss Carleton, she would dismiss my brother, she would complain of him, she would ruin him as completely as it was in human power to do so.  The world is not generous; it is only noble souls that believe in noble souls.  Such people as those would always persist in considering Allan a fortune-hunter and nothing more.”

All of which arguments Miss Lyster intended to impress upon her pupil’s mind, for this one great object of keeping Allan’s wooing a secret.  If that could be until Miss Arleigh was twenty-one, and then she could be persuaded into marrying him, their fortunes were made.

That was her chief object.  She knew Miss Arleigh was naturally frank, open and candid; that she had an instinctive dislike of all underhand behavior; that she could never be induced to look with favor on anything mean; but if the romance and generous truth of her character could be played upon, they were safe.

She had the gift of eloquence, this woman who so cruelly betrayed her trust.  She talked well, and the most subtle and clever of arguments came to her naturally.  Her words had with them a charm and force that the young could not resist.  Let those who misuse such talents remember they must answer to the Most High God for them.  Adelaide Lyster used hers to betray a trust, that ought to have been held most sacred.  She cared little how she influenced Marion’s mind.  She cared little what false notions, what false philosophy, what wrong ideas, she taught her, provided only she could win her interests, her liking and love for Allan.

CHAPTER IV.

Miss Carleton had been with her young ladies for a promenade—­people less elegant would have said for a walk—­Miss Carleton rejoiced in long words.  “Young ladies, prepare for a promenade,” was her daily formula.  They had just returned, and Miss Arleigh missed Adelaide Lyster.

“Why did not Miss Lyster go out with us today?” she asked of another governess.

“She complained of headache, and seemed quite out of spirits,” was the reply.

Marion hastened to her; she was of a most loving disposition, this motherless girl—­tender and kind of heart, and there was no one for her to love—­no father, mother, sister or brother; she was very rich, but quite alone in the world.  She hastened to Miss Lyster’s room, and found that young lady completely prostrated by what she called a nervous headache.

“You have been crying, Adelaide,” said Marion.  “It’s no use either denying it or turning your head so that I cannot see you.  What is the matter?”

“I wish you had not come here, Marion.  I did not want you to know my trouble.”

“But I must know it,” and the girl’s arms were clasped around her.  She stooped down and kissed the treacherous face.  “I must know it,” she continued, impetuously; “when I say must, Adelaide, I mean it.”