had forgiven this man altogether, had made excuses for him which cleansed his sin of all its blackness in her own eyes, and was to this day anxious as ever for his welfare and his happiness.  Mrs Dale feared that Lily did in truth love him still.  If it was so, was she not bound to show her this letter?  Lily was old enough to judge for herself—­old enough, and wise enough too.  Mrs Dale told herself half-a-score of times that morning that she could not be justified in keeping the letter from her daughter.

But yet much she wished that the letter had never been written, and would have given very much to be able to put it out of the way without injustice to Lily.  To her thinking it would be impossible that Lily should be happy marrying such a man.  Such a marriage now would be, as Mrs Dale thought, a degradation to her daughter.  A terrible injury had been done to her; but such reparation as this would, in Mrs Dale’s eyes, only make the injury deeper.  And yet Lily loved the man; and, loving him, how could she resist the temptation of his offer?  ’Mamma, from whom was that letter which you got this morning?  Lily asked.  For a few moments Mrs Dale remained silent.  ‘Mamma,’ continued Lily, ’I think I know whom it was from.  If you tell me to ask nothing further, of course I will not.’

‘No, Lily; I cannot tell you that.’

’Then, mamma, out with it at once.  What is the use of shivering on the brink?’

‘It was from Mr Crosbie.’

’I knew it.  I cannot tell you why, but I knew it.  And now, mamma;—­am I to read it?’

‘You shall do as you please, Lily.’

‘Then I please to read it.’

’Listen to me a moment first.  For myself, I wish that the letter had never been written.  It tells badly for the man, as I think of it.  I cannot understand how any man could have brought himself to address either you or me, after having acted as he acted.’

‘But, mamma, we differ about all that, you know.’

‘Now he has written, and there is the letter—­if you choose to read it.’

Lily had it in her hand, but she still sat motionless, holding it.  ’You think, mamma, I ought not to read it?’

‘You must judge for yourself, dearest.’

‘And if I do not read it, what shall you do, mamma?’

’I shall do nothing;—­or, perhaps, I should in such a case acknowledge it, and tell him that we have nothing more to say to him.’

‘That should be very stern.’

‘He has done that which makes some sternness necessary.’

Then Lily was again silent, and still she sat motionless, with the letter in her hand.  ‘Mamma,’ she said at last, ’if you tell me not to read it, I will give it back to you unread.  If you bid me exercise my own judgment, I shall take it upstairs and read it.’