She hesitated.
The young lady compressed her hands together, as if with sudden agony, and in broken accents murmured—
“Helen Grahame!”
There was again a silence, and then Lotte looked up wistfully in her face, and said—
“You must have suffered deeply, dreadfully; but pray believe the worst to be past. Look upon me as a trustful, loving, faithful attendant, in whom you may confide safely so much as you may see fit to reveal. I ask no more. I will preserve your secret faithfully, and do all, all that I can to bring to you peace and comfort.”
Then Helen fell upon her neck, and wept a long, long passion of tears; and, when the fount was exhausted, she, in broken tones and disjointed words, and with sobs and groans, revealed all to Lotte—more, far more, than ever she had breathed to mortal before.
Lotte listened with breathless attention, sometimes in astonishment, at others in fright, but when, half fainting, the worst part of the history was confessed by Helen, she pressed her to her bosom, and wept with her.
A woman’s error out of a woman’s love, oh! it was not unpardonable, least of all in the eyes of a woman with a young and loving heart.
It was far into the night before Helen laid her wearied frame down upon Lotte’s humble couch. The tender and compassionate girl made a pretence of arranging her little domestic matters, so that she did not retire with her, but busied herself about the room, until she perceived that, utterly worn out and exhausted, Helen had fallen into a slumber.
Then she knelt down by the modest bedside, and, in humble intercession, prayed long and earnestly for her.