"Think how great it is
when I know not how to tell you."
The sweet, gentle eyes looked wonderingly into her own. Beatrice
clasped her sister's hands.
"You must not judge me harshly," she said, "I am not good like
you, Lily; I never could be patient and gentle like you. Do you
remember, long ago, at Knutsford, how I found you one morning
upon the cliffs, and told you that I hated my life? I did hate
it, Lillian," she continued. "You can never tell how much; its
quiet monotony was killing me. I have done wrong; but surely
they are to blame who made my life what it was then--who shut me
out from the world, instead of giving me my rightful share of its
pleasures. I can not tell you what I did, Lily."
She laid her beautiful, sad face on her sister's hands. Lillian
bent over her, and whispered how dearly she loved her, and how
she would do anything to help her.
"That very morning," she said, never raising her eyes to her
sister's face--"that morning, Lily, I met a stranger--a
gentleman he seemed to me--and he watched me with admiring eyes.
I met him again, and he spoke to me.
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