Ah, had she but done so, how much misery might have been spared the hapless girl! But she put the impulse from her with a shudder.
No, no, she could not breathe to human ears the story of her false lover and the tragedy that had ended her dream of love.
She had never permitted her thoughts to dwell upon Lester Armstrong since that fatal night.
If there were times when she thought of him as when she knew him first, seemingly so loving, tender and true, she put the thought quickly from her, remembering him as she saw him that fatal night—transformed suddenly into a demon by strong drink, when he struck her down upon finding that she had just been disinherited—that she was not the heiress that he had taken her to be.
He thought his crime buried fathoms deep under the drifting snow heaps. Ah, how great would be his terror to find that the grave to which he had consigned her had given her back to the world of the living! No, no, she could not shock Claire's young ears with that horrible story!
It would be bad enough for her to learn of it in after years.
Thus Faynie settled the matter in her own mind, and her lips were sealed.
One morning Claire burst eagerly into the room, quite as soon as it was light.
"I was here late last night, but you were asleep, Faynie," she said, "and I came away, though I could scarcely wait to tell you the wonderful news."
"I think I can guess what it is," replied Faynie, stroking the girl's brown curls, "Your lover has declared his love for you and asked you to be his wife. Is it not so?"