"My dear, I never heard you speak like that before. The true gentleman is the soul of honour. Blood always tells."
"Yes; and sometimes cries to heaven for vengeance!" Gwyneth spoke with vehemence. "What a picture is this!" and she read in tones of mingled pity and indignation—
"In her right hand the lily, in her left
The letter—all her bright hair streaming down—
And all the coverlid was cloth-of-gold.
Drawn to her waist; and she herself in white,
All but her face, and that clear-featured face
Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead,
But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled."
"My dear," said Mrs. Dowling, "how your voice trembles! You enter too fully into the feelings of these mere creations of the imagination. Your nerves are too finely strung."
The girl read on, of the last missive of that other broken-hearted maiden—
"I, sometime called the maid of Astolat,
Come, for you left me taking no farewell,
Hither, to take my last farewell of you.
I loved you, and my love had no return.
And therefore my true love has been my death."
The old dame wiped her eyes and spectacles, saying, as she curiously scanned the girl's face—
"Gwyneth, darling, I believe you have a history. You have been badly treated some time or other."
"Perhaps I have," replied the girl, shortly; "but what is that? I am only a plain common girl!"
As, after an hour's reading, Gwyneth stepped quickly with beating heart towards her home, glad to be free from the guileless but garrulous old soul, the returning
