In the pause she realized the attention of the others converged upon her, and that the tears were brimming over her eyes. When younger, and in better health, she must have been eminently lovely; and there were still the remains of great beauty about her. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. CHAPTER I. Those lives removed,—and Sir Rowland is completely in his power, the estates would be yours—HIS! if he were your husband. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven.
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