"You can not tell what I have suffered, Lily," she said, humbly. "See, my pride is all beaten down, only those who have had a secret, eating heart and life away, can tell what I have endured. A few more days of agony like this, and I shall be free forever from Hugh Fernely."
Her sister tried to soothe her with gentle words, but they brought no comfort.
"He will be here at nine," she said; "it is six now. I will write my letter. He will be at the shrubbery gate. I will manage so that you shall have time. Give him the note I will write, speak to him for me, tell him I am ill and can not see him. Shall you be frightened?"
"Yes," replied Lillian, gently; "but that will not matter. I must think of you, not of myself."
"You need not fear him," said Beatrice. "Poor Hugh, I could pity him if I did not hate him. Lily, I will thank you when my agony is over; I can not now."
She wrote but a few words, saying she was ill and unable to see him; he must be satisfied, and willing to wait yet a little longer.
She gave the letter to her sister. Lillian's heart ached as she noted the trembling hands and quivering lips.
"I have not asked you to keep my secret, Lily," said Beatrice, sorrowfully.
"There is no need," was the simple reply.