On reaching her home, the home she must so soon resign, Katherine sent a note to Rachel Trant asking if she had a spare hour that evening, as she, Katherine, had something to tell her, and preferred going to her house.  Then she sat down to write a full and detailed account of what had taken place to her sister-in-law.  It was dusk before she had finished and she herself felt considerably exhausted.  Miss Payne had gone out to dine with one of her former girls, now the wife of a rackety horsy man, whose conduct made her often look back with a sigh of regret to the tranquil days passed under the guardianship of the prudent spinster; so having partaken of tea at their usual dinner-time she sat and mused awhile on the one subject from which she could derive comfort—­Errington and his wonderful kindness to her.  If he took the matter in hand she thought herself safe.  Her confidence in him was unbounded.  Ah! why had she placed such a gulf between them?  How she had destroyed her own life!  There was but one tie between her and the world, little Charlie and Cis, and perhaps she had been their greatest enemy.  She almost wished she could love De Burgh.  He was undoubtedly in earnest; he interested her; he—­But no.  Between her and any possible husband she had reared the insurmountable barrier of a secret not to be shared by any save one, from whom, somehow, instead of dividing her, had bound her indissolubly; at least she felt it to be so.

It was near the hour she had fixed to call on Rachel, so she roused herself, and asking the amiable Francois to accompany her, started for Malden Street.

Rachel Trant had made a back parlor, designated the “trying-on” room, bright and cosy, with a shaded lamp, a red fire, a couple of easy-chairs at either side of it, and a gay cloth over the small round table erst strewn with fashion books, measuring tapes, pins, patterns and pin-cushions.

“How very good of you to come to me!” cried Miss Trant, hastening to divest her friend of bonnet and cloak.  “I am very curious to hear the story you have to tell.”  Then, as Katherine sat down where the lamp-light fell upon her face, she added, “But you are not looking well, Miss Liddell; your eyes look heavy; your mouth is sad.”

“I am troubled, more than sad,” said Katherine; “the why and wherefore I have come to tell you.”

“Yes; tell me everything.”  And Rachel took a low seat opposite her guest; her usually pale face was slightly flushed, her large blue eyes darkened with the pleasure of seeing the friend she loved so warmly and the interest with which she awaited her disclosure, and as Katherine looked at her she realized how pretty and attractive she must have been before the fresh grace of her girlhood had been withered by the cruel fires of passion and despair.  “I am listening,” said Rachel, gently, to recall her visitor, whose thoughts were evidently far away.

“Yes; I had forgotten.”  And Katherine began her story.