am reckless. But it is not the less true that you make him an exile because you may make me a beggar."
Sophy (wringing her hands). "Have you no mercy, Mr. Fairthorn? Will you not explain?"
Fairthorn. "Yes, if you will promise to keep it secret at least for the next six months—anything for breathing time!"
Sophy (impatiently). "I promise, I promise! speak, speak!"
And then Fairthorn did speak! He did speak of Jasper Losely—his character—his debasement—even of his midnight visit to her host'schamber. He did speak of the child fraudulently sought to be thrust on Darrell—of Darrell's just indignation and loathing. The man was merciless; though he had not an idea of the anguish he was inflicting, he was venting his own anguish. All the mystery of her past life became clear at once to the unhappy girl—all that had been kept from her by protecting love. All her vague conjectures now became a dreadful certainty;—explained now why Lionel had fled her—Why he had written that letter, over the contents of which she had pondered, with her finger on her lip, as if to hush her own sighs—all, all! She marry Lionel now! impossible! She bring disgrace upon him, in return for such generous, magnanimous affection! She drive his benefactor, her grandsire's vindicator, from his own hearth! She—she—that Sophy who, as a mere infant, had recoiled from the thought of playful subterfuge and tamperings with plain honest truth! She rose before Fairthorn had done; indeed the tormentor, left to himself, would not have ceased till nightfall.
"Fear not, Mr. Fairthorn," she said, resolutely, "Mr. Darrell will be no exile; his house will not be destroyed. Lionel Haughton shall not wed the child of disgrace! Fear not, Sir; all is safe!"
She shed not a tear; nor was there writ on her countenance that change, speaking of blighted hope, which had passed over it at her young lover's melancholy farewell. No, now she was supported—now there was a virtue by the side of a sorrow—now love was to shelter and save the beloved from disgrace—from disgrace! At that thought, disgrace fell harmless from herself as the rain from the plumes of a bird. She passed on, her cheek glowing, her form erect.
By the porch door she met Waife and the Morleys. With a kind of wild impetuosity she seized the old man's arm, and drew it fondly, clingingly within her own. Henceforth they two were to be, as in years gone by, all in all to each other. George Morley eyed her countenance in thoughtful surprise. Mrs. Morley, bent as usual on saying something seasonably kind, burst
