"No," replied Lillian, gently; "it is better for you to know the truth. She does not love you—she never will."
"I do not believe it," he cried. "I will never believe it from any lips but her own! Not love me! Great Heaven! Do you know you are speaking of the woman who promised to be my wife? If she tells me so, I will believe her."
"She will tell you," said Lillian, "and you must not blame her. Come again when she is well."
"No," returned Hugh Fernely; "I have waited long enough. I am here to see her, and I swear I will not leave until she has spoken to me."
He drew a pencil case from his pocket, and wrote a few lines on the envelope which Beatrice had sent.
"Give that to your sister," he said, softly; "and, Miss Lillian, I thank you for coming to me. You have been very kind and gentle. You have a fair, true face. Never break a man's heart for pastime, or because the long sunny hours hang heavy upon your hands."
"I wish I could say something to comfort you," she said. He held out his hand and she could not refuse hers.
"Goodbye, Miss Lillian! Heaven bless you for your sympathy."
"Goodbye," she returned, looking at the dark, passionate face she was never more to see.
The moon was hidden behind a dense mass of thick clouds. Hugh Fernely walked quickly down the path. Lillian, taking the folded paper, hastened across the gardens. But neither of them saw a tall, erect figure, or a pale, stricken face; neither of them heard Lionel Dacre utter a low cry as the shawl fell from Lillian's golden head.