No one could have believed that Mrs. Wentworth's gentle face could grow so hard and cold.
Laurel Vane had so bitterly betrayed the trust she reposed in her that she did not know how to forgive her.
"Do not charge me with your folly, your madness!" she cried, indignantly. "My sin was bad enough—but yours is beyond pardon. How dared you, Laurel Vane, marry the proud, rich St. Leon Le Roy?"
"I loved him—he loved me!" moaned the wretched young bride.
"And what will become of his love now when he learns the truth?" queried Beatrix, with stinging scorn.
Cyril hastily interposed.
"Do not be hard on her, Beatrix. She was kind to us. Be kind to her. See, she is almost heart-broken by your scorn!"
Laurel looked at the handsome, kindly face. It was full of sympathy and pity, not hard and angry like the women's faces. Her despairing heart filled with new hope. She clasped her hands, and looked at him with dark, appealing eyes.
"Yes, I pitied you, I helped you to your love," she said, pleadingly. "Will you let them rob me of mine? Will you let them betray me?"
All the pity in his heart, all his manly compassion was stirred into life by her words and looks.