"What, marry her?"

"Aye, that I will."

"Oh Paul, will you tie yourself for life to a--" The word died on her
lips, but a gesture of repugnance finished the speech.

"A what?" he demanded, excitedly.

"An innocent, one bereft of reason," stammered Lillian, entirely
forgetting herself in her interest for him.

"Of whom do you speak?" asked Paul, looking utterly bewildered,

"Of poor Helen."

"Good heavens, who told you that base lie?" And his voice deepened with
indignant pain.

"I saw her, you did not deny her affliction; Hester said so, and I
believed it. Have I wronged her, Paul?"

"Yes, cruelly. She is blind, but no idiot, thank God."

There was such earnestness in his voice, such reproach in his words, and
such ardor in his eye, that Lillian's pride gave way, and with a broken
entreaty for pardon, she covered up her face, weeping the bitterest
tears she ever shed. For in that moment, and the sharp pang it brought
her, she felt how much she loved Paul and how hard it was to lose him.
The childish affection had blossomed into a woman's passion, and in a