sullen—altered so completely that he seemed a new man. That same Bothwell, whom everybody in the neighbourhood of Bodmin suspects of a foul crime. That is the man whom I do not wish my sister to marry; albeit he is of the same flesh and blood as the woman whom I respect above all other women upon earth."
"I am glad you have remembered that—at last," said Hilda bitterly. "I am glad you have not quite forgotten that this murderer is Dora Wyllard's first cousin—brought up with her, taught by the same teachers, reared in the same way of thinking."
"God grant I may see reason to alter my opinion, Hilda," replied her brother. "Do you suppose that this suspicion of mine is not a source of pain and grief? But while I think as I do, can you wonder that I forbid any suggestion of a marriage between my sister and Bothwell Grahame?"
"I have told you that I shall never be his wife," said Hilda. "Pray do not let us ever speak his name again."
They were at the entrance to The Spaniards by this time—not the great iron gates by the lodge, but a little wooden gate opening into the fine old garden, second only in beauty to the Penmorval parterres and terraces.
"Will you mind if I don't appear at dinner, Edward?" asked Hilda presently, as they went into the house. "I have a racking headache."
"Poor little girl!" said her brother tenderly. "You are looking the picture of misery. I am very sorry for you, my dear. I am very sorry for us all; for I fear there is calamity ahead for some of us. If Bothwell is wise he will go to the other end of the world, and take himself as far as possible out of the ken of his countrymen. If he should ask you for counsel, Hilda, that is the best advice you can give him."
"If he should ask me, that is just the very last counsel he would ever hear from my lips," answered Hilda indignantly. "I would entreat him to stand his ground—to live down this vile calumny—to wait the day when Providence will clear his name from this dark cloud. Such a day will come, I am sure of that."
She went to her own room, and shut herself up for the rest of the evening. The convenient excuse of a headache answered very well with the servants. She declined all refreshment—would not have this or that brought up on a tray to oblige Glossop, her own maid, who was deeply concerned at her young mistress's indisposition.
"I have a very bad headache," she said, "and all I want is to be left alone till to-morrow morning. Don't come near me, please, till you bring me my early cup of tea."
Glossop sighed and submitted. It was not often that Miss
