"Come. Let us go to your mother and tell her the truth; we owe it to her and to ourselves."
"To-morrow, Mr. Lambert—pray wait till to-morrow."
The preacher's face hardened; he was in no mood for leniency.
"We have delayed too long already," he said, and took a step forward.
"Believe me," she replied, laying her hand on his arm, "I do not ask it from weakness, but my husband returns to-morrow, and thanks to an inheritance from an uncle who died to-day, comes back a rich man, able to support a wife. When my mother knows this, she will receive our news very differently. See," and she handed him the telegram.
"I will wait till your husband returns to speak to your mother," he replied, "but as for that unhappy girl—if it is not too late to turn her steps to the right path—I will spare no pains to bring her to a realisation of what she has done. For this, no time is like the present—no time too soon."
"I hope you may succeed," said Lady Isabelle, "but I fear you'll find her much worse than you imagine. However, I do not wish to discourage you."
"I'm not easy to discourage in any good work, I trust, Lady Isabelle Kingsland."
She started, as her new name was pronounced, and laying a detaining hand upon him, as he would have left her, said, her voice breaking:—
"Forgive me, Mr. Lambert. Say you forgive me."