"YE'LL just permit me to remind ye again, young leddy, that thehottle's full--exceptin' only this settin'-room, and thebedchamber yonder belonging to it."

So spoke "Mistress Inchbare," landlady of the Craig Fernie Inn,to Anne Silvester, standing in the parlor, purse in hand, andoffering the price of the two rooms before she claimed permissionto occupy them.

The time of the afternoon was about the time when GeoffreyDelamayn had started in the train, on his journey to London.About the time also, when Arnold Brinkworth had crossed the moor,and was mounting the first rising ground which led to the inn.

Mistress Inchbare was tall and thin, and decent and dry. MistressInchbare's unlovable hair clung fast round her head in wirylittle yellow curls. Mistress Inchbare's hard bones showedthemselves, like Mistress Inchbare's hard Presbyterianism,without any concealment or compromise. In short, asavagely-respectable woman who plumed herself on presiding over asavagely-respectable inn.

There was no competition to interfere with Mistress Inchbare. Sheregulated her own prices, and made her own rules. If you objectedto her prices, and revolted from her rules, you were free to go.In other words, you were free to cast yourself, in the capacityof houseless wanderer, on the scanty mercy of a Scotchwilderness. The village of Craig Fernie was a collection ofhovels. The country about Craig Fernie, mountain on one side andmoor on the other, held no second house of public entertainment,for miles and miles round, at any point of the compass. Norambling individual but the helpless British Tourist wanted foodand shelter from strangers in that part of Scotland; and nobodybut Mistress Inchbare had food and shelter to sell. A morethoroughly independent person than this was not to be found onthe face of the hotel-keeping earth. The most universal of allcivilized terrors--the terror of appearing unfavorably in thenewspapers--was a sensation absolutely unknown to the Empress ofthe Inn. You lost your temper, and threatened to send her billfor exhibition in the public journals. Mistress Inchbare raisedno objection to your taking any course you pleased with it. "Eh,man! send the bill whar' ye like, as long as ye pay it first.There's nae such thing as a newspaper ever darkens my doors.Ye've got the Auld and New Testaments in your bedchambers, andthe natural history o' Pairthshire on the coffee-room table--andif that's no' reading eneugh for ye, ye may een gae back Southagain, and get the rest of it there."

This was the inn at which Anne Silvester had appeared alone, withnothing but a little bag in her hand. This was the woman whosereluctance to receive her she innocently expected to overcome byshowing her purse.

"Mention your charge for the rooms," she said. "I am willing topay for them beforehand."

Her majesty, Mrs. Inchbare, never even looked at her subject'spoor little purse.

"It just comes to this, mistress," she answered. "I'm no' free totak' your money, if I'm no' free to let ye the last rooms left inthe hoose. The Craig Fernie hottle is a faimily hottle--and hasits ain gude name to keep up. Ye're ower-well-looking, my youngleddy, to be traveling alone."

The time had been when Anne would have answered sharply enough.The hard necessities of her position made her patient now.

"I have already told you," she said, "my husband is coming hereto join me." She sighed wearily as she repeated her ready-madestory--and dropped into the nearest chair, from sheer inabilityto stand any longer.

Mistress Inchbare looked at her, with the exact measure ofcompassionate interest which she might have shown if she had beenlooking at a stray dog who had fallen footsore at the door of theinn.

"Weel! weel! sae let it be. Bide awhile, and rest ye. We'll no'chairge ye for that--and we'll see if your husband comes. I'lljust let the rooms, mistress, to _him,_, instead o' lettin' themto _you._ And, sae, good-morrow t' ye." With that finalannouncement of her royal will and pleasure, the Empress of theInn withdrew.

Anne made no reply. She watched the landlady out of the room--andthen struggled to control herself no longer. In her position,suspicion was doubly insult. The hot tears of shame gathered inher eyes; and the heart-ache wrung her, poor soul--wrung herwithout mercy.

A trifling noise in the room startled her. She looked up, anddetected a man in a corner, dusting the furniture, and apparentlyacting in the capacity of attendant at the inn. He had shown herinto the parlor on her arrival; but he had remained so quietly inthe room that she had never noticed him since, until that moment.

He was an ancient man--with one eye filmy and blind, and one eyemoist and merry. His head was bald; his feet were gouty; his nosewas justly celebrated as the largest nose and the reddest nose inthat part of Scotland. The mild wisdom of years was expressedmysteriously in his mellow smile. In contact with this wickedworld, his manner revealed that happy mixture of twoextremes--the servility which just touches independence, and theindependence which just touches servility--attained by no men inexistence but Scotchmen. Enormous native impudence, which amusedbut never offended; immeasurable cunning, masquerading habituallyunder the double disguise of quaint prejudice and dry humor, werethe solid moral foundations on which the character of thiselderly person was built. No amount of whisky ever made himdrunk; and no violence of bell-ringing ever hurried hismovements. Such was the headwaiter at the Craig Fernie Inn;known, far and wide, to local fame, as "Maister Bishopriggs,Mistress Inchbare's right-hand man."

"What are you doing there?" Anne asked, sharply.

Mr. Bishopriggs turned himself about on his gouty feet; waved hisduster gently in the air; and looked at Anne, with a mild,paternal smile.

"Eh! Am just doostin' the things; and setin' the room in decentorder for ye."

"For _me?_ Did you hear what the landlady said?"

Mr. Bishopriggs advanced confidentially, and pointed with a veryunsteady forefinger to the purse which Anne still held in herhand.

"Never fash yoursel' aboot the landleddy!" said the sage chief ofthe Craig Fernie waiters. "Your purse speaks for you, my lassie.Pet it up!" cried Mr. Bishopriggs, waving temptation away fromhim with the duster. "In wi' it into yer pocket! Sae long as thewarld's the warld, I'll uphaud it any where--while there's sillerin the purse, there's gude in the woman!"

Anne's patience, which had resisted harder trials, gave way atthis.

"What do you mean by speaking to me in that familiar manner?" sheasked, rising angrily to her feet again.

Mr. Bishopriggs tucked his duster under his arm, and proceeded tosatisfy Anne that he shared the landlady's view of her position,without sharing the severity of the landlady's principles."There's nae man livin'," said Mr. Bishopriggs, "looks with mairindulgence at human frailty than my ain sel'. Am I no' to befamiliar wi' ye--when I'm auld eneugh to be a fether to ye, andready to be a fether to ye till further notice? Hech! hech! Orderyour bit dinner lassie. Husband or no husband, ye've got astomach, and ye must een eat. There's fesh and there's fowl--or,maybe, ye'll be for the sheep's head singit, when they've donewith it at the tabble dot?"

There was but one way of getting rid of him: "Order what youlike," Anne said, "and leave the room." Mr. Bishopriggs highlyapproved of the first half of the sentence, and totallyoverlooked the second.

"Ay, ay--just pet a' yer little interests in my hands; it's thewisest thing ye can do. Ask for Maister Bishopriggs (that's me)when ye want a decent 'sponsible man to gi' ye a word of advice.Set ye doon again--set ye doon. And don't tak' the arm-chair.Hech! hech! yer husband will be coming, ye know, and he's sure towant it!" With that seasonable pleasantry the venerableBishopriggs winked, and went out.

Anne looked at her watch. By her calculation it was not far fromthe hour when Geoffrey might be expected to arrive at the inn,assuming Geoffrey to have left Windygates at the time agreed on.A little more patience, and the landlady's scruples would besatisfied, and the ordeal would be at an end.

Could she have met him nowhere else than at this barbarous house,and among these barbarous people?

No. Outside the doors of Windygates she had not a friend to helpher in all Scotland. There was no place at her disposal but theinn; and she had only to be thankful that it occupied asequestered situation, and was not likely to be visited by any ofLady Lundie's friends. Whatever the risk might be, the end inview justified her in confronting it. Her whole future dependedon Geoffrey's making an honest woman of her. Not her future with_him_--that way there was no hope; that way her life was wasted.Her future with Blanche--she looked forward to nothing now buther future with Blanche.

Her spirits sank lower and lower. The tears rose again. It wouldonly irritate him if he came and found her crying. She tried todivert her mind by looking about the room.

There was very little to see. Except that it was solidly built ofgood sound stone, the Craig Fernie hotel differed in no otherimportant respect from the average of second-rate English inns.There was the usual slippery black sofa--constructed to let youslide when you wanted to rest. There was the usualhighly-varnished arm-chair, expressly manufactured to test theendurance of the human spine. There was the usual paper on thewalls, of the pattern designed to make your eyes ache and yourhead giddy. There were the usual engravings, which humanity nevertires of contemplating. The Royal Portrait, in the first place ofhonor. The next greatest of all human beings--the Duke ofWellington--in the second place of honor. The third greatest ofall human beings--the local member of parliament--in the thirdplace of honor; and a hunting scene, in the dark. A door oppositethe door of admission from the passage opened into the bedroom;and a window at the side looked out on the open space in front ofthe hotel, and commanded a view of the vast expanse of the CraigFernie moor, stretching away below the rising ground on which thehouse was built.

Anne turned in despair from the view in the room to the view fromthe window. Within the last half hour it had changed for theworse. The clouds had gathered; the sun was hidden; the light onthe landscape was gray and dull. Anne turned from the window, asshe had turned from the room. She was just making the hopelessattempt to rest her weary limbs on the sofa, when the sound ofvoices and footsteps in the passage caught her ear.

Was Geoffrey's voice among them? No.

Were the strangers coming in?

The landlady had declined to let her have the rooms: it was quitepossible that the strangers might be coming to look at them.There was no knowing who they might be. In the impulse of themoment she flew to the bedchamber and locked herself in.

The door from the passage opened, and Arnold Brinkworth--shown inby Mr. Bishopriggs--entered the sitting-room.

"Nobody here!" exclaimed Arnold, looking round. "Where is she?"

Mr. Bishopriggs pointed to the bedroom door. "Eh! yer goodleddy's joost in the bedchamber, nae doot!"

Arnold started. He had felt no difficulty (when he and Geoffreyhad discussed the question at Windygates) about presentinghimself at the inn in the assumed character of Anne's husband.But the result of putting the deception in practice was, to saythe least of it, a little embarrassing at first. Here was thewaiter describing Miss Silvester as his "good lady;" and leavingit (most naturally and properly) to the "good lady's" husband toknock at her bedroom door, and tell her that he was there. Indespair of knowing what else to do at the moment, Arnold askedfor the landlady, whom he had not seen on arriving at the inn.

"The landleddy's just tottin' up the ledgers o' the hottle in herain room," answered Mr. Bishopriggs. "She'll be here anon--thewearyful woman!--speerin' who ye are and what ye are, and takin'a' the business o' the hoose on her ain pair o' shouthers." Hedropped the subject of the landlady, and put in a plea forhimself. "I ha' lookit after a' the leddy's little comforts,Sir," he whispered. "Trust in me! trust in me!"

Arnold's attention was absorbed in the very serious difficulty ofannouncing his arrival to Anne. "How am I to get her out?" hesaid to himself, with a look of perplexity directed at thebedroom door.

He had spoken loud enough for the waiter to hear him. Arnold'slook of perplexity was instantly reflected on the face of Mr.Bishopriggs. The head-waiter at Craig Fernie possessed an immenseexperience of the manners and customs of newly-married people ontheir honeymoon trip. He had been a second father (with excellentpecuniary results) to innumerable brides and bridegrooms. He knewyoung married couples in all their varieties:--The couples whotry to behave as if they had been married for many years; thecouples who attempt no concealment, and take advice fromcompetent authorities about them. The couples who are bashfullytalkative before third persons; the couples who are bashfullysilent under similar circumstances. The couples who don't knowwhat to do, the couples who wish it was over; the couples whomust never be intruded upon without careful preliminary knockingat the door; the couples who _can_ eat and drink in the intervalsof "bliss," and the other couples who _can't._ But the bridegroomwho stood he lpless on one side of the door, and the bride whoremained locked in on the other, were new varieties of thenuptial species, even in the vast experience of Mr. Bishopriggshimself.

"Hoo are ye to get her oot?" he repeated. "I'll show ye hoo!" Headvanced as rapidly as his gouty feet would let him, and knockedat the bedroom door. "Eh, my leddy! here he is in flesh andbluid. Mercy preserve us! do ye lock the door of the nuptialchamber in your husband's face?"

At that unanswerable appeal the lock was heard turning in thedoor. Mr. Bishopriggs winked at Arnold with his one availableeye, and laid his forefinger knowingly along his enormous nose."I'm away before she falls into your arms! Rely on it I'll nocome in again without knocking first!"

He left Arnold alone in the room. The bedroom door opened slowlyby a few inches at a time. Anne's voice was just audible speakingcautiously behind it.

"Is that you, Geoffrey?"

Arnold's heart began to beat fast, in anticipation of thedisclosure which was now close at hand. He knew neither what tosay or do--he remained silent.

Anne repeated the question in louder tones:

"Is that you?"

There was the certain prospect of alarming her, if some reply wasnot given. There was no help for it. Come what come might, Arnoldanswered, in a whisper:

"Yes."

The door was flung wide open. Anne Silvester appeared on thethreshold, confronting him.

"Mr. Brinkworth!!!" she exclaimed, standing petrified withastonishment.

For a moment more neither of them spoke. Anne advanced one stepinto the sitting-room, and put the next inevitable question, withan instantaneous change from surprise to suspicion.

"What do you want here?"

Geoffrey's letter represented the only possible excuse forArnold's appearance in that place, and at that time.

"I have got a letter for you," he said--and offered it to her.

She was instantly on her guard. They were little better thanstrangers to each other, as Arnold had said. A sickeningpresentiment of some treachery on Geoffrey's part struck cold toher heart. She refused to take the letter.

"I expect no letter," she said. "Who told you I was here?" Sheput the question, not only with a tone of suspicion, but with alook of contempt. The look was not an easy one for a man to bear.It required a momentary exertion of self-control on Arnold'spart, before he could trust himself to answer with dueconsideration for her. "Is there a watch set on my actions?" shewent on, with rising anger. "And are _you_ the spy?"

"You haven't known me very long, Miss Silvester," Arnoldanswered, quietly. "But you ought to know me better than to saythat. I am the bearer of a letter from Geoffrey."

She was an the point of following his example, and of speaking ofGeoffrey by his Christian name, on her side. But she checkedherself, before the word had passed her lips.

"Do you mean Mr. Delamayn?" she asked, coldly.

"Yes."

"What occasion have _I_ for a letter from Mr. Delamayn?"

She was determined to acknowledge nothing--she kept himobstinately at arm's-length. Arnold did, as a matter of instinct,what a man of larger experience would have done, as a matter ofcalculation--he closed with her boldly, then and there.

"Miss Silvester! it's no use beating about the bush. If you won'ttake the letter, you force me to speak out. I am here on a veryunpleasant errand. I begin to wish, from the bottom of my heart,I had never undertaken it."

A quick spasm of pain passed across her face. She was beginning,dimly beginning, to understand him. He hesitated. His generousnature shrank from hurting her.

"Go on," she said, with an effort.

"Try not to be angry with me, Miss Silvester. Geoffrey and I areold friends. Geoffrey knows he can trust me--"

"Trust you?" she interposed. "Stop!"

Arnold waited. She went on, speaking to herself, not to him.

"When I was in the other room I asked if Geoffrey was there. Andthis man answered for him." She sprang forward with a cry ofhorror.

"Has he told you--"

"For God's sake, read his letter!"

She violently pushed back the hand with which Arnold once moreoffered the letter. "You don't look at me! He _has_ told you!"

"Read his letter," persisted Arnold. "In justice to him, if youwon't in justice to me."

The situation was too painful to be endured. Arnold looked ather, this time, with a man's resolution in his eyes--spoke toher, this time, with a man's resolution in his voice. She tookthe letter.

"I beg your pardon, Sir," she said, with a sudden humiliation oftone and manner, inexpressibly shocking, inexpressibly pitiableto see. "I understand my position at last. I am a woman doublybetrayed. Please to excuse what I said to you just now, when Isupposed myself to have some claim on your respect. Perhaps youwill grant me your pity? I can ask for nothing more."

Arnold was silent. Words were useless in the face of such utterself-abandonment as this. Any man living--even Geoffreyhimself--must have felt for her at that moment.

She looked for the first time at the letter. She opened it on thewrong side. "My own letter!" she said to herself. "In the handsof another man!"

"Look at the last page," said Arnold.

She turned to the last page, and read the hurried penciled lines."Villain! villain! villain!" At the third repetition of the word,she crushed the letter in the palm of her hand, and flung it fromher to the other end of the room. The instant after, the firethat had flamed up in her died out. Feebly and slowly she reachedout her hand to the nearest chair, and sat down in it with herback to Arnold. "He has deserted me!" was all she said. The wordsfell low and quiet on the silence: they were the utterance of animmeasurable despair.

"You are wrong!" exclaimed Arnold. "Indeed, indeed you are wrong!It's no excuse--it's the truth. I was present when the messagecame about his father."

She never heeded him, and never moved. She only repeated thewords

"He has deserted me!"

"Don't take it in that way!" pleaded Arnold--"pray don't! It'sdreadful to hear you; it is indeed. I am sure he has _not_deserted you." There was no answer; no sign that she heard him;she sat there, struck to stone. It was impossible to call thelandlady in at such a moment as this. In despair of knowing howelse to rouse her, Arnold drew a chair to her side, and pattedher timidly on the shoulder. "Come!" he said, in hissingle-hearted, boyish way. "Cheer up a little!"

She slowly turned her head, and looked at him with a dullsurprise.

"Didn't you say he had told you every thing?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Don't you despise a woman like me?"

Arnold's heart went back, at that dreadful question, to the onewoman who was eternally sacred to him--to the woman from whosebosom he had drawn the breath of life.

"Does the man live," he said, "who can think of his mother--anddespise women?"

That answer set the prisoned misery in her free. She gave him herhand--she faintly thanked him. The merciful tears came to her atlast.

Arnold rose, and turned away to the window in despair. "I meanwell," he said. "And yet I only distress her!"

She heard him, and straggled to compose herself "No," sheanswered, "you comfort me. Don't mind my crying--I'm the betterfor it." She looked round at him gratefully. "I won't distressyou, Mr. Brinkworth. I ought to thank you--and I do. Come back orI shall think you are angry with me." Arnold went back to her.She gave him her hand once more. "One doesn't understand peopleall at once," she said, simply. "I thought you were like othermen--I didn't know till to-day how kind you could be. Did youwalk here?" she added, suddenly, with an effort to change thesubject. "Are you tired? I have not been kindly received at thisplace--but I'm sure I may offer you whatever the inn affords."

It was impossible not to feel for her--it was impossible not tobe interested in her. Arnold's honest longing to help herexpressed itself a little too openly when he spoke next. "All Iwant, Miss Silvester, is to be of some service to you, if I can,"he said. "Is there any thing I can do to make your position heremore comfortable? You will stay at this place,won't you? Geoffrey wishes it."

She shuddered, and looked away. "Yes! yes!" she answered,hurriedly.

"You will hear from Geoffrey," Arnold went on, "to-morrow or nextday. I know he means to write."

"For Heaven's sake, don't speak of him any more!" she cried out."How do you think I can look you in the face--" Her cheeksflushed deep, and her eyes rested on him with a momentaryfirmness. "Mind this! I am his wife, if promises can make me hiswife! He has pledged his word to me by all that is sacred!" Shechecked herself impatiently. "What am I saying? What interest can_you_ have in this miserable state of things? Don't let us talkof it! I have something else to say to you. Let us go back to mytroubles here. Did you see the landlady when you came in?"

"No. I only saw the waiter."

"The landlady has made some absurd difficulty about letting mehave these rooms because I came here alone."

"She won't make any difficulty now," said Arnold. "I have settledthat."

"_You!_"

Arnold smiled. After what had passed, it was an indescribablerelief to him to see the humorous side of his own position at theinn.

"Certainly," he answered. "When I asked for the lady who hadarrived here alone this afternoon--"

"Yes."

"I was told, in your interests, to ask for her as my wife."

Anne looked at him--in alarm as well as in surprise.

"You asked for me as your wife?" she repeated.

"Yes. I haven't done wrong--have I? As I understood it, there wasno alternative. Geoffrey told me you had settled with him topresent yourself here as a married lady, whose husband was comingto join her."

"I thought of _him_ when I said that. I never thought of _you."_

"Natural enough. Still, it comes to the same thing (doesn't it?)with the people of this house."

"I don't understand you. "

"I will try and explain myself a little better. Geoffrey saidyour position here depended on my asking for you at the door (as_he_ would have asked for you if he had come) in the character ofyour husband."

"He had no right to say that."

"No right? After what you have told me of the landlady, justthink what might have happened if he had _not_ said it! I haven'thad much experience myself of these things. But--allow me toask--wouldn't it have been a little awkward (at my age) if I hadcome here and inquired for you as a friend? Don't you think, inthat case, the landlady might have made some additionaldifficulty about letting you have the rooms?"

It was beyond dispute that the landlady would have refused to letthe rooms at all. It was equally plain that the deception whichArnold had practiced on the people of the inn was a deceptionwhich Anne had herself rendered necessary, in her own interests.She was not to blame; it was clearly impossible for her to haveforeseen such an event as Geoffrey's departure for London. Still,she felt an uneasy sense of responsibility--a vague dread of whatmight happen next. She sat nervously twisting her handkerchief inher lap, and made no answer.

"Don't suppose I object to this little stratagem," Arnold wenton. "I am serving my old friend, and I am helping the lady who issoon to be his wife."

Anne rose abruptly to her feet, and amazed him by a veryunexpected question.

"Mr. Brinkworth," she said, "forgive me the rudeness of somethingI am about to say to you. When are you going away?"

Arnold burst out laughing.

"When I am quite sure I can do nothing more to assist you," heanswered.

"Pray don't think of _me_ any longer."

"In your situation! who else am I to think of?"

Anne laid her hand earnestly on his arm, and answered:

"Blanche!"

"Blanche?" repeated Arnold, utterly at a loss to understand her.

"Yes--Blanche. She found time to tell me what had passed betweenyou this morning before I left Windygates. I know you have madeher an offer: I know you are engaged to be married to her."

Arnold was delighted to hear it. He had been merely unwilling toleave her thus far. He was absolutely determined to stay with hernow.

"Don't expect me to go after that!" he said. "Come and sit downagain, and let's talk about Blanche."

Anne declined impatiently, by a gesture. Arnold was too deeplyinterested in the new topic to take any notice of it.

"You know all about her habits and her tastes," he went on, "andwhat she likes, and what she dislikes. It's most important that Ishould talk to you about her. When we are husband and wife,Blanche is to have all her own way in every thing. That's my ideaof the Whole Duty of Man--when Man is married. You are stillstanding? Let me give you a chair."

It was cruel--under other circumstances it would have beenimpossible--to disappoint him. But the vague fear of consequenceswhich had taken possession of Anne was not to be trifled with.She had no clear conception of the risk (and it is to be added,in justice to Geoffrey, that _he_ had no clear conception of therisk) on which Arnold had unconsciously ventured, in undertakinghis errand to the inn. Neither of them had any adequate idea (fewpeople have) of the infamous absence of all needful warning, ofall decent precaution and restraint, which makes the marriage lawof Scotland a trap to catch unmarried men and women, to this day.But, while Geoffrey's mind was incapable of looking beyond thepresent emergency, Anne's finer intelligence told her that acountry which offered such facilities for private marriage as thefacilities of which she had proposed to take advantage in her owncase, was not a country in which a man could act as Arnold hadacted, without danger of some serious embarrassment following asthe possible result. With this motive to animate her, sheresolutely declined to take the offered chair, or to enter intothe proposed conversation.

"Whatever we have to say about Blanche, Mr. Brinkworth, must besaid at some fitter time. I beg you will leave me."

"Leave you!"

"Yes. Leave me to the solitude that is best for me, and to thesorrow that I have deserved. Thank you--and good-by."

Arnold made no attempt to disguise his disappointment andsurprise.

"If I must go, I must," he said, "But why are you in such ahurry?"

"I don't want you to call me your wife again before the people ofthis inn."

"Is _that_ all? What on earth are you afraid of?"

She was unable fully to realize her own apprehensions. She wasdoubly unable to express them in words. In her anxiety to producesome reason which might prevail on him to go, she drifted backinto that very conversation about Blanche into which she haddeclined to enter but the moment before.

"I have reasons for being afraid," she said. "One that I can'tgive; and one that I can. Suppose Blanche heard of what you havedone? The longer you stay here--the more people you see--the morechance there is that she _might_ hear of it."

"And what if she did?" asked Arnold, in his own straightforwardway. "Do you think she would be angry with me for making myselfuseful to _you?_"

"Yes," rejoined Anne, sharply, "if she was jealous of me."

Arnold's unlimited belief in Blanche expressed itself, withoutthe slightest compromise, in two words:

"That's impossible!"

Anxious as she was, miserable as she was, a faint smile flittedover Anne's face.

"Sir Patrick would tell you, Mr. Brinkworth, that nothing isimpossible where women are concerned." She dropped her momentarylightness of tone, and went on as earnestly as ever. "You can'tput yourself in Blanche's place--I can. Once more, I beg you togo. I don't like your coming here, in this way! I don't like itat all!"

She held out her hand to take leave. At the same moment there wasa loud knock at the door of the room.

Anne sank into the chair at her side, and uttered a faint cry ofalarm. Arnold, perfectly impenetrable to all sense of hisposition, asked what there was to frighten her--and answered theknock in the two customary words:

"Come in!"