He spoke inaudibly, and just then she stirred and turned.  As she moved, something white fluttered from one of the ruffled pockets of her apron, and fell to the floor.  He picked it up and saw it was the letter he had given her some hours before.  The sheet was folded loosely, and glancing at it, as it opened in his hand, he saw in delicate characters:  “Oh, my baby,—­my darling!  Be patient and trust your mother.”  An irresistible impulse made him look up, and the beautiful solemn eyes of the girl were fixed upon him, but instantly her black lashes covered them.

For the first time in years he felt the flush of shame mount into his cold haughty face, yet even then he noted the refined delicacy which made her feign sleep.

“Regina.”

She made no movement.

“Child, I know you are awake.  Do you suppose I would stoop to read your letter clandestinely?  It dropped from your pocket, and I have seen only one line.”

She put out her slender hand, took the letter, and answered: 

“My mother writes me that you are her best friend, and I intend to believe that all you say is true.”

“Do you think I read your letter?”

“I shall think no more about it.”

“I will paint her as I see her,
Ten times have the lilies blown
Since she looked upon the sun,
Face and figure of a child,—­
Though top calm, you think, and tender,
For the childhood you would lend her.”

CHAPTER IV.

“Indeed, Peyton, you distress me.  What can be the matter?  I heard you walking the floor of your room long after midnight, and feared you were ill.”

“Not ill, Elise, but sorely perplexed.  If I felt at liberty to communicate all the circumstances to you, doubtless you would readily comprehend and sympathize with the peculiar difficulties that surround me; but unfortunately I am bound by a promise which prevents me from placing all the facts in your possession.  Occasionally ministers involuntarily become the custodians of family secrets that oppress their hearts and burden them with unwelcome responsibility, and just now I am suffering from the consequences of a rash promise which compassion extorted from me years ago.  While I heartily regret it, my conscience will not permit me to fail in its fulfilment.”

An expression of pain and wounded pride overshadowed Mrs. Lindsay’s usually bright, happy face.

“Peyton, surely you do not share the unjust opinion so fashionable nowaday, that women are unworthy of being entrusted with a secret?  What has so suddenly imbued you with distrust of the sister who has always shared your cares, and endeavoured to divide your sorrows?  Do you believe me capable of betraying your confidence?

“No, dear.  In all that concerns myself, you must know I trust you implicitly,—­trust not only your affection, but your womanly discretion, your subtle, critical judgment; but I have no right to commit even to your careful guardianship some facts which were expressly confided solely to my own.”