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"Ah, Christal, even my husband grieves my husband, who would do anything in the whole world for your peace. You have forgotten Harold." A softness came over Christal's face. "No, I have not forgotten him. Day and night I pray for him who saved more than my life my soul. For that deed may God bless him! and God pardon me." She said this, shuddering, too, as at some awful memory.

Little Clotilde does not love her instructress. Poor Christal seems to be at war with the whole household. The pupil and the poor teacher must be very different in Madame Blandin's eyes.

With the marvellous strength of fury, she lifted her from the floor, and dashed her down again. In falling, Olive's forehead struck against the marble chimney-piece, and she lay stunned and insensible on the hearth. Christal looked at her sister for a moment, without pity or remorse, but in motionless horror. Then she unlocked the door and fled.

But Christal was rarely in a pathetic mood. She only shrugged her shoulders, and then stroked Olive's arm with a patronising air. "Come, your journey has been too much for you, and you had no business to wander off that way with Mrs. Gwynne; you shall lie down and rest a little and then go to bed." But Olive was afraid of night and its solitude. She knew there was no slumber for her.

The orphan appeared there under the character she so steadily sustained, as Miss Christal Manners, the child of illustrious parents lost at sea; and so she vanished altogether from the atmosphere of Woodford Cottage. Olive Rothesay was now straining every nerve towards the completion of her first exhibited picture a momentous crisis in every young artist's life.

When, in the daylight, she recovered a little more, Mrs. Gwynne told her all that had happened. From the moment that Christal saw her sister carried upstairs, dead, as it were, her passion ceased. But she exhibited neither contrition nor alarm. She went and locked herself up in her chamber, from whence she had never stirred. She let no one enter except Mrs.

For of late perhaps with more frequently hearing him called by the familiar home appellation, she had thought of him less as Mr. Gwynne than as Harold. "I wonder what makes your blithe Christal so late," observed Mrs. Gwynne, abruptly, as if disliking to betray further emotion. "Lyle Derwent promised to bring her himself much against his will, though," she added, smiling.

You have spoken of all your friends, save one." She hesitated, and at last uttered the name of Lyle. "Hush!" said Christal. But her cheek's paleness changed not; her heavy eye neither kindled nor drooped. "Hush! I do not wish to hear that name. It has passed out of my world for ever blotted out by the horrors that followed." "Then you have forgotten" "Forgotten all.

There are no convents or monasteries open to us Protestants. "Christal looked for a moment like her own scornful self. 'Us Protestants? she echoed; and then she said, humbly, 'One more confession can be nothing to me now. I have deceived you all; I am, and I have ever been a Roman Catholic. "She thought, perhaps, I should have blamed her for this long course of religious falsehood. I blame her!

My visit was to yourself," said the stranger, evidently enjoying the incognito she had kept, for her black eyes sparkled with fun. "I am happy to see you, madam," again stammered the troubled Meliora. "I thought you would be I came to surprise you. My dear Miss Vanbrugh, have you really forgotten me? Then allow me to re-introduce myself. My name is Christal Manners."