mysterious return, and subsequently his arrest and disgrace; the cruel treatment to which, as she felt, she had been subjected by the man she still loved deeply—all told upon a not robust constitution.
Brightness and joy she still brought to many a desolate occupant of the Mount, but the seeds of disease, as a result of her untiring devotion, were implanted in her slender frame.
Daily she grew more ethereal and lovely, as the consumptive often do. The sweet spirit that was hers shone from the delicate frame that was languishing. She almost welcomed the prospect of soon being laid to rest beside the fresh-made flower-beds that crowned the hill where those she had comforted were sleeping. Sad she was, but not morbid. To the last, life afforded her opportunity of engaging in work she loved. Calmly about the lake her yacht glided, as she sought to cheer those who like herself were passing to another shore.
"You have not escaped me this morning," said Hilda, gently laying her hand on the girl's arm, as the latter was about to step into her boat. Gwyneth, with a wearied expression, sank on to the seat on the pier and gazed pensively at the waters rippling against the peaceful prow of her yacht. "I have been wanting for a long time to see you, dear," said the young widow, softly. Seating herself by the sick girl she took her hand in hers, and stroking it lovingly, added—"I want to ask your pardon for a great wrong I did you."
"I do not quite understand you, Mrs. O'Lochlan," replied Gwyneth, with a shade of reserve.
"Do not speak like that, Gwyneth. Look at me, dear."
The girl turned her head and gazed, almost vacantly, into Hilda's face. Her thoughts were far away.
