But one chance did she determine to try—­an appeal to Alice.  Blanche Challoner’s eyes were suddenly and rudely opened to the badness of the man, and she was aware now how thoroughly unfit he was to become the husband of her sister.  It struck her that only misery could result from the union, and that, if possible, Alice should be saved from entering upon it.  Would she have married him herself, then?  Yes.  But it was a different thing for that fair, fresh young Alice; she had not wasted her life’s best years in waiting for him.

When the family had gone to rest, and the house was quiet, Blanche Challoner proceeded to her sister’s bedroom.  Alice had not begun to undress; she was sitting in a comfortable chair before the fire, her feet on the fender, reading a love letter from Sir Francis.

“Alice, I am come to tell you a story,” she said quietly.  “Will you hear it?”

“In a minute.  Stop a bit,” replied Alice.  She finished the perusal of the letter, put it aside, and then spoke again.  “What did you say, Blanche?  A story?”

Blanche nodded.  “Several years ago there was a fair young girl, none too rich, in our station of life.  A gentleman, who was none too rich either, sought and gained her love.  He could not marry; he was not rich, I say.  They loved on in secret, hoping for better times, she wearing out her years and her heart.  Oh, Alice!  I cannot describe to you how she loved him—­how she has continued to love him up to this moment.  Through evil report she clung to him tenaciously and tenderly as the vine clings to its trellis, for the world spoke ill of him.”

“Who was the young lady?” interrupted Alice.  “Is this a fable of romance, Blanche, or a real history?”

“A real history.  I knew her.  All those years—­years and years, I say—­he kept leading her on to love, letting her think that his love was hers.  In the course of time he succeeded to a fortune, and the bar to their marriage was over.  He was abroad when he came into it, but returned home at once; their intercourse was renewed, and her fading heart woke up once more to life.  Still, the marriage did not come on; he said nothing of it, and she spoke to him.  Very soon now, should it be, was his answer, and she continued to live on—­in hope.”

“Go on, Blanche,” cried Alice, who had grown interested in the tale, never suspecting that it could bear a personal interest.

“Yes, I will go on.  Would you believe, Alice, that almost immediately after this last promise, he saw one whom he fancied he should like better, and asked her to be his wife, forsaking the one to whom he was bound by every tie of honor—­repudiating all that had been between them, even his own words and promises?”

“How disgraceful!  Were they married?”

“They are to be.  Would you have such a man?”

“I!” returned Alice, quite indignant at the question.  “It is not likely that I would.”