to enrich her paramour. But she did very honestly grieve that his last hours should have been embittered by the knowledge of his wife's treachery—which the alteration of his will clearly proved him to have obtained. Mr. Twisden's cautiously worded letter did no more than repeat verbatim the message her uncle had desired should be transmitted to his niece. It was enough. He had forgiven Elizabeth, for his eyes had been opened. It was a comfort to her to know that his last thought of her was not unkindly, not resentful of her fancied ingratitude. Still, the burthen of more money! She sighed as she thought of it. Uncle William was dead, and with his death the main object of her reclusion, the only valid excuse for leading her present life, was at an end. She did not shut her eyes to the truth. It would be her duty now to return to England, and take up her solitary existence at Whiteburn.
The Paris train had been in about an hour one afternoon—it was some days after Elizabeth had received the above communication—when Alaric walked into his sister's room, and found her alone, lying on a sofa near the window. Under her thin hand there lay an open French book, but she was not reading. Her wasted face was turned towards the last golden gleam of day, over which the twilight was rapidly gathering.
"Are you coming to sit with me a little while. Ally?" she asked. "We are so seldom alone, and I have so much to say to you."
He drew a chair close to her sofa, and sat down.
"We shall not be interrupted for some time, I fancy," he remarked dryly. "Miss Shaw is occupied."
