Lady Dora kept the key; it was known when she had
been visiting them; the dark eyes bore traces of weeping.
Beatrice had not been forgotten and never would be. Her name was
on Lillian's lips a hundred times each day. They had been twin
sisters, and it always seemed to her that part of herself lay in
the church yard at the foot of the hill.
Gaspar Laurence had gone abroad--he could not endure the sight
or name of home. Lady Laurence hoped that time would heal a
wound that nothing else could touch. When, after some years, he
did return, it was seen that his sorrow would last for life. He
never married--he never cared for the name of any woman save
that of Beatrice Earle.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
A week after their return, Lillian Earle stood one evening
watching from the deep oriel window the sun's last rays upon the
flowers. Lionel joined her, and she knew from his face that he
had come to ask the question she had declined to answer before.
"I have done penance, Lillian," he said, "if ever man has. For
two years I have devoted time, care, and thought to those you
love, for your sake; for two years I have tried night and day to
learn, for your sake, to become a better man.
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