It was no blush now, but a dead waxen whiteness, that came over the
beautiful face, even down to the chin. The soft brown eyes grew fixed
and wild with an imploring terror. "You won't tell him?" she gasped out;
and then stood quivering and shuddering. Guy was very much surprised: he
had never believed greatly in his cousin's affection for her betrothed;
but here there were signs, not only of the absence of love, but of the
presence of physical fear.

"My dear child," he said, very kindly, "don't alarm yourself so
absurdly. I have not the honor of Mr. Bruce's confidence; and if I had,
how could I tell him of an affair where _I_ have been most to blame?
I'll speak to Foster; he must not show his disappointment even before
Uncle Henry. You will be quite safe, you see. But, mind, I won't allow
_any one_ to frighten or vex my pet cousin." His countenance lowered as
he spoke, and there was a threat in his eyes.

As the cloud darkened on his face, the light came back on Isabel
Raymond's. She took his hand--all fibre and sinew, like an
oak-bough--into her slender fingers and pressed it hard. In good truth,
a woman at her need could ask no better defender than he who stood by
her side then, tall, strong, black-browed, and terrible as Saul. "Thank
you so much, dear Guy," she whispered. "If you speak to Mr. Foster, you
will tell him how _very_ sorry I am!" and then she left him.

Guy did speak to the curate, I hope gently. At all events, we never
laughed at him again. How could we, when we saw him going about his
daily duties, honestly and bravely, and always, when in presence,
struggling with his great sorrow, so as not by word or look to
compromise the thoughtless child who had won his heart for her
amusement, and thrown it away for her convenience?