She stood in the center of the room, holding the lamp in her shaking hand, its light streaming over her lovely face and golden hair. The poor creature turned suddenly at the sound of her compassionate voice and looked at her with an expression of awe in her great, hollow eyes.
"Are you an angel?" she asked, abruptly.
"No, poor soul; I am a wronged and unhappy prisoner like yourself!"
"Another one of his victims?" queried the living skeleton, sitting up on the cot and folding her emaciated arms around her skinny knees.
Lily came forward and seated herself on the foot of the bed, and set her lamp on the floor.
"Of whom are you speaking?" asked she.
"Of Harold Colville, to be sure," said the poor woman, shuddering as the name writhed over her blanched lips. "Has he married you, too, eh?"
"God forbid," ejaculated her visitor with a strong shiver of disgust. "I am a poor girl whom he is trying to force into a marriage with him. He has stolen me away from my friends and is keeping me locked up here until I consent to be his wife. But I will never, never do so!" she cried, passionately.
"You do not love him?" said the poor frame beside her.
"No, I hate him! But who are you?" asked Lily, her interest deepening in the poor creature whose mind it was evident still burned clearly in her wrecked frame.