LADY ALICE'S STORY.
The girl shrank back a little, but she did not remove her eyes from her mother's face. A great dread, however, had entered into them. A hot color leaped into her cheeks. Scarcely did she yet know what she dreaded; it was something intangible, too awful to be uttered—the terror of disgrace.
But Lady Alice saw the look and interpreted it aright.
"No, my darling," she said, "it is not that. It is nothing to be ashamed of—exactly. I do not accuse your father of any crime—unless it be a crime to have married a woman that he did not love, and to whom he was not suited, and to have been cruel—yes, cruel—to her and to her child."
And then she burst into tears.
"Mamma, dear mamma!" said Lesley, clasping her and sobbing out of sympathy, "it was a crime—worse than a crime—to be cruel to you."
Lady Alice sobbed helplessly for a few minutes. Then she commanded herself by a great and visible effort and dried her eyes.
"It is weak to give way before you, child," she said, sadly. "But I cannot tell you how much I have dreaded this moment—the moment when I must tell you of the great error of my life."
"Don't tell me, mamma. I would rather hear nothing that you did not want me to know."
"But I must tell you, Lesley. It is in my bargain with my husband that I should tell you. If I say nothing he will tell you his side—and perhaps that would be worse."