"Must I listen to her, auntie?" cried Hildegarde, turning to her aunt.
"Yes," said Miss Fernly, "you must listen, my poor child, while I pray to Heaven to give you strength to bear it."
"Eugene!" cried the girl, "why are you silent?"
He could not answer her. He only looked at her with a world of woe in his gaze, his whole frame trembling with anguish.
Ida May never knew in what words she told her strange story. Hildegarde listened like one turned to stone. Ida May told her of the awful mistake that had blasted two lives and parted two who fondly loved each other.
Those who saw the look of pity in the face of Hildegarde would never forget it.
Her face became as pale as marble; the blood receded from the ripe-red lips.
She passed through a life-time of woe in those few minutes. She did not look at Ida May or her lover when the former ceased speaking, but she turned her white, set, tragic face to her aunt.
"You have done this dreadful thing!" she cried. "I wonder that Heaven does not strike you dead for it!"
"Hildegarde! Hildegarde!" cried Miss Fernly, "I would only be too glad to give my life to atone for my part in this dreadful affair."