Miss Carleton had been with her young ladies for a promenade—people less elegant would have said for a walk—Miss Carleton rejoiced in long words. "Young ladies, prepare for a promenade," was her daily formula. They had just returned, and Miss Arleigh missed Adelaide Lyster.

"Why did not Miss Lyster go out with us today?" she asked of another governess.

"She complained of headache, and seemed quite out of spirits," was the reply.

Marion hastened to her; she was of a most loving disposition, this motherless girl—tender and kind of heart, and there was no one for her to love—no father, mother, sister or brother; she was very rich, but quite alone in the world. She hastened to Miss Lyster\'s room, and found that young lady completely prostrated by what she called a nervous headache.

"You have been crying, Adelaide," said Marion. "It\'s no use either denying it or turning your head so that I cannot see you. What is the matter?"

"I wish you had not come here, Marion. I did not want you to know my trouble."

"But I must know it," and the girl\'s arms were clasped around her. She stooped down and kissed the treacherous face. "I must know it," she continued, impetuously; "when I say must, Adelaide, I mean it."

"I dare not tell you—I cannot tell you, Miss Arleigh. It would have been well for my brother had he never seen your face."

"You have heard from him, then—it is about him?" and the fair face flushed.

"Yes, it is about him. I have had a letter from him this morning. He says that he must give up his appointment here and go abroad—that he cannot bear the torture of seeing you; and if he does go abroad, I shall never see him again."

The lips that had been caressing her quivered slightly.

"He is all I have in the world," continued the governess; "the only gleam of light or love in my troubled life. Oh, Marion! if he goes from me—goes to hide his sorrow and his love where I shall never see him again—what will become of me? I am in despair. The very thought of it breaks my heart."

And Miss Lyster sobbed as though she meant every word of it. The heiress bent over her.

"What can I do to help you? I am so sorry, Adelaide."

"There is only one thing you could do," replied the other, "and I dare not even mention it. My brother must die. Oh, fatal hour in which he ever saw the beauty of that face!"

"Tell me what the one thing is, Adelaide. If it is possible, I will do it."

"I dare not mention it. It is useless to name it. Men like my brother throw their genius, their life and love, under the feet of girls like you; but they meet with no return."

"Tell me what it is," repeated the other, her generous heart touched by the thought of receiving so much and giving so little.

"If you would but consent to see him—I know you will not, but it is the only means of saving him—if you expressed but the faintest shadow of a wish, he would stay; I know he would."

Marion hesitated.

"How can I interfere?" she said. "How can I express any such wish to him?"

"I knew you would not. That is why I did not care to tell you my trouble. Why should you—so rich, so happy, so beautiful—why should you interest yourself in the fate of people like us? My brother is a genius, not a lord."

"I wish," cried the girl, impatiently, "that you would not be always talking to me about my riches. I cannot help them. You make me wretched. It is not because I am rich that I hesitate—how absurd you are, Adelaide!—but because your brother is a stranger to me, and I have no right to interfere in his life."

"Is that all? I fancied you considered him so far beneath you. Genius is Godlike, but it is not money. Ah, Marion, if that be all, save him! Save him! He is all I have in the world! He is so young, so sensitive, so clever, so proud, you could influence him with half a word. If you said to him, \'Stay,\' he would remain, though kings and emperors should summon him. Will you see him, and say that one word, Marion, for my sake?"

It was very pleasant to know that one word from her could influence the life of this great unknown genius; very pleasant to believe that she was loved so dearly, so entirely, that even an emperor could not take the man who worshiped her from her side. It seems weak that she should so easily believe. Insight gives one a false estimate of her character; but there are many things to be considered before judging her. She was romantic in the highest degree; she was all idealty and poetry. She had no idea of the realities of life; she had the vaguest possible idea that there was wickedness in the world, but that ever deceit or treachery should come near her was an idea that never entered her romantic mind. She was too old to be at school; had her mother been living, she would have been removed from there. She would have had friends and admirers, her love and affection would have found proper objects, and the great calamity of her life would have been averted. Heaven help and guide any foolish, romantic girl left without the guidance of mother or friend!

She thought nothing of the impropriety of meeting the young artist unknown to any one. She remembered only the romance of it—a genius, a handsome young genius was dying for love of her, for her sake; he was going away, to leave home, friends and country, going to die in exile, simply for love of her; to lay down all the brilliant hopes of his life, to give up all his dreams, all his plans, because he found her so fair he could no longer live in her presence. Before she made any further remark she began to think whether any of her favorite heroines had ever been in this delightful situation, and how it was best to behave with a genius dying for her. She could not remember, but she knew there were innumerable instances of queens having loved their subjects—to wit, the stately Elizabeth and Essex. She, in the eyes of this poor artist and his sister, was a queen—it would not hurt her to stoop from her high estate. She turned her fair, troubled face to the astute woman by her side.

"Even if I could do him any good by seeing him," she said, "how could it be managed?"

Miss Lyster\'s stare of admiration was something wonderful to see. "Would you be so noble, so generous? Oh, Miss Arleigh, you will save my life and his! Would you really see him, and tell him he had better stay? How good you are! Do you know, I could kneel here at your feet to thank you. If you are willing, I can make all arrangements—I only needed your consent."

The excitement was a pleasant break in the monotony of school life. How little did Marion understand those with whom she had to deal! She had promised to grant this interview as something of a condescension. Miss Lyster managed her so skilfully that before it took place she had learned to long for it.

The farce of Allan\'s illness was kept up. For two days the pupils were deprived of their lessons through the indisposition of their master.

"I do not know that your kindness will be needed after all," said Adelaide, sadly. "My brother is very ill; he may not recover. Oh, what a fatal day it was when he first saw you, Miss Arleigh!"

Now, Marion had often rehearsed this interview. She had pictured herself as taking the part of a very dignified queen; of saying to this interesting subject who was dying for love of her, "Stay." She imagined his delight at her condescension, his sister\'s gratitude for her kindness; and now, behold, nothing of the kind was wanting—the pretty role she had sketched out for herself required no playing.

"I do not think I need make any arrangement for the little interview you promised my brother," said Miss Lyster to the simple girl. "I have had a note from him this morning. He is in better health, but he is in despair, and he cannot hide it. He absolutely refuses to believe that you have consented to see him. Unless you tell him so yourself, he will never believe it."

"But how can I tell him?" asked the girl.

"Write on a piece of paper, \'Come at the hour and place your sister appoints. I wish to see you.\' Then he will come. I am writing tonight, and will enclose the note."

It would rather take from her queenlike attitude, she thought; but as she had promised the kindness, it would not be graceful to dispute as to how it should be granted; so, under the guidance of the woman to whom her innocent youth was entrusted, she sealed her fate with her own hands.