Had she any right to make those dear faces her companions in the future?

She hesitated; her tears dropped on the photographs.  “They’re as good as spoiled now,” she thought; “they’re no longer fit for anybody but me.”  She paused, and abruptly took up the third and last photograph—­the likeness of Herbert Linley.

Was it an offense, now, even to look at his portrait?  No idea of leaving it behind her was in her mind.  Her resolution vibrated between two miseries—­the misery of preserving her keep-sake after she had parted from him forever, and the misery of destroying it.  Resigned to one more sacrifice, she took the card in both hands to tear it up.  It would have been scattered in pieces on the floor, but for the chance which had turned the portrait side of the card toward her instead of the back.  Her longing eyes stole a last look at him—­a frenzy seized her—­she pressed her lips to the photograph in a passion of hopeless love.  “What does it matter?” she asked herself.  “I’m nothing but the ignorant object of his kindness—­the poor fool who could see no difference between gratitude and love.  Where is the harm of having him with me when I am starving in the streets, or dying in the workhouse?” The fervid spirit in her that had never known a mother’s loving discipline, never thrilled to the sympathy of a sister-friend, rose in revolt against the evil destiny which had imbittered her life.  Her eyes still rested on the photograph.  “Come to my heart, my only friend, and kill me!” As those wild words escaped her, she thrust the card furiously into the bosom of her dress—­and threw herself on the floor.  There was something in the mad self-abandonment of that action which mocked the innocent despair of her childhood, on the day when her mother left her at the cruel mercy of her aunt.

That night was a night of torment in secret to another person at Mount Morven.

Wandering, in his need of self-isolation, up and down the dreary stone passages in the lower part of the house, Linley counted the hours, inexorably lessening the interval between him and the ordeal of confession to his wife.  As yet, he had failed to find the opportunity of addressing to Sydney the only words of encouragement he could allow to pass his lips:  he had asked for her earlier in the evening, and nobody could tell him where she was.  Still in ignorance of the refuge which she might by bare possibility hope to find in Mrs. MacEdwin’s house, Sydney was spared the torturing doubts which now beset Herbert Linley’s mind.  Would the noble woman whom they had injured allow their atonement to plead for them, and consent to keep their miserable secret?  Might they still put their trust in that generous nature a few hours hence?  Again and again those questions confronted Linley; and again and again he shrank from attempting to answer them.

Chapter XIII.

Kitty Keeps Her Birthday.