“I dare not tell you—­I cannot tell you, Miss Arleigh.  It would have been well for my brother had he never seen your face.”

“You have heard from him, then—­it is about him?” and the fair face flushed.

“Yes, it is about him.  I have had a letter from him this morning.  He says that he must give up his appointment here and go abroad—­that he cannot bear the torture of seeing you; and if he does go abroad, I shall never see him again.”

The lips that had been caressing her quivered slightly.

“He is all I have in the world,” continued the governess; “the only gleam of light or love in my troubled life.  Oh, Marion! if he goes from me—­goes to hide his sorrow and his love where I shall never see him again—­what will become of me?  I am in despair.  The very thought of it breaks my heart.”

And Miss Lyster sobbed as though she meant every word of it.  The heiress bent over her.

“What can I do to help you?  I am so sorry, Adelaide.”

“There is only one thing you could do,” replied the other, “and I dare not even mention it.  My brother must die.  Oh, fatal hour in which he ever saw the beauty of that face!”

“Tell me what the one thing is, Adelaide.  If it is possible, I will do it.”

“I dare not mention it.  It is useless to name it.  Men like my brother throw their genius, their life and love, under the feet of girls like you; but they meet with no return.”

“Tell me what it is,” repeated the other, her generous heart touched by the thought of receiving so much and giving so little.

“If you would but consent to see him—­I know you will not, but it is the only means of saving him—­if you expressed but the faintest shadow of a wish, he would stay; I know he would.”

Marion hesitated.

“How can I interfere?” she said.  “How can I express any such wish to him?”

“I knew you would not.  That is why I did not care to tell you my trouble.  Why should you—­so rich, so happy, so beautiful—­why should you interest yourself in the fate of people like us?  My brother is a genius, not a lord.”

“I wish,” cried the girl, impatiently, “that you would not be always talking to me about my riches.  I cannot help them.  You make me wretched.  It is not because I am rich that I hesitate—­how absurd you are, Adelaide!—­but because your brother is a stranger to me, and I have no right to interfere in his life.”

“Is that all?  I fancied you considered him so far beneath you.  Genius is Godlike, but it is not money.  Ah, Marion, if that be all, save him!  Save him!  He is all I have in the world!  He is so young, so sensitive, so clever, so proud, you could influence him with half a word.  If you said to him, ‘Stay,’ he would remain, though kings and emperors should summon him.  Will you see him, and say that one word, Marion, for my sake?”