"I owe you my life," she said, gratefully.
A transient, melancholy smile lit the grave, dark face.
"You need not thank me," he said, almost bruskly. "Wait until years have come and gone, and you have fairly tested life. It will be a question then whether you will award me blame or praise for the turn I did you yesterday."
The large, dark, melancholy eyes held Irene's with a strange fascination.
"Ah! you think that youth is all sunshine and roses," she answered, almost against her will. "I have already learned the reverse of that, and yet I find life sweet."
"How came you to be in the water?" he asked, anxiously, sitting down and drawing Lilia to a seat upon his knee.
The deep color rushed over Irene's pale, lovely face. A deep shame overpowered her, and yet against her will something within her forced her to confess her sin.
"You will be shocked," she said; "but I must tell you the truth. I threw myself in."
"No," he exclaimed, in surprise.
"Yes," she answered, sadly.