"Hush! do you think I am blind? He gained the love of Lottie; and, when marriage came to be spoken of as a natural sequence, we found out that we had been entertaining a Jesuit in disguise. He could not marry."
"A Jesuit?"
"I am speaking metaphorically. The man called himself a Protestant, if he called himself anything. I heard him say he was a Christian. Very Christian work it was of him to gain Lottie's heart, and then confess that he had gained it for no end. Lottie died. The blow was too sharp for her. She was a timid, gentle flower, and could not stand the rough blast. Anne, believe me, there is no fate so cruel in the whole catalogue of the world's troubles as that of misplaced love."
"Why could he not marry?" I asked, growing interested in the tale.
"Ah! why, indeed!" she answered, curling her lips with mockery: "why cannot Harry Chandos? The cases are somewhat parallel. It is the remembrance of Lottie which causes me to feel this interest in you, for you put me very much in mind of her, and I must try to save you."
"There is nothing to save me from!" I answered, touched with her kindness, and feeling ashamed of myself not to be more touched with it than I was. "I am not likely to marry Mr. Chandos, or to be asked to marry him!"
"My dear, I don't think I can be deceived. There is love between you!"
"You did not finish about Lottie," I said, evading the question. "Why could he not marry her?"
"Because he had a wife living, from whom he was separated."
"At least, Mr. Chandos has not that."